


Auld Acquaintance

by BazinMousqueton



Series: An Aesthetic of Miracle [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (Almost) Everyone is Bi, (For Almost Everyone), Alternate Universe - Architects, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Comfort at Last, Emotional Hurt/No Comfort yet, Emotional Whump All Round, Happy Ending, Ill-advised kissing, Ill-advised plans, Multi, Murderkitty!Aramis, Owls, Pining!d'Artagnan, Polyamory, Savoy, Still no comfort, Swearing, Well-advised kissing, everyone is an architect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8811820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: Will the stress of running their own studio prove too much for architects Athos, Aramis and Porthos? Their first project is hit by problems before it even starts. There are owls nesting on the building site, old enemies stirring up trouble, and new friends making life complicated. Chapter 6: Assassins and motorbikes and bears, oh my!There's a spoilertastic summary of the previous story in the end notes, so you don't have to read part 1 before reading this. If you're thinking of reading part 1 and don't want spoilers, head over there now: "Fraternité et Égalité."





	1. Phoning It In

Athos pulled the blinds across, blocking the view of frost-covered rooftops and -- more importantly -- stopping the morning sun's glare from hitting Porthos's screen. The blinds were new. When this had been Athos's spare room, instead of Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon's office, he'd left the full-height glazing uncurtained. 

When it had been Athos's spare room it had been filled with dust and junk and bike parts, not friends. 

Athos smiled to himself. Sometimes life got good and stayed good. It had been six months since they'd won the Bourbon Developments competition; six months of late nights, overwork and exhaustion. Six months of holding down two jobs each: setting up Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon while Athos and Aramis worked part-time at Studio Tréville and Constance and Porthos taught at ENSA Paris-Belleville. 

Six months of camaraderie.

"The demolition foreman was chased off site by a _what?_ " Aramis asked, his face filling Porthos's screen, his usually graceful movements made jerky by Skype. His voice came through loud and clear via Athos's home cinema soundbar, appropriated from the living room. None of them had time to watch telly. 

"A tawny owl," Porthos said, leaning back in his desk chair and putting his hands behind his head. He looked shattered. His eyes were puffy, his skin lacklustre, and his beard unkempt. 

"He'd have been scalped if he hadn't been wearing his hard hat..." Constance said, perched on her desk, behind Porthos. She looked equally tired yet her face shone with enthusiasm. 

"...which would have been appropriate considering how much they charged for asbestos removal," Athos said, settling himself down at his drawing board, off at one edge of the webcam's field of view. He pushed his tee square up to cover the concept sketch he'd been working on; he didn't want to be distracted while they had their team meeting.

"I've had to put the demolition contract on hold," Porthos said. He was their project architect for the Court of Miracles residential development.

"Are tawny owls endangered?" Aramis asked. "Protected?"

"Nah," Porthos said. "Just vicious. We've fenced off the north end of the site until we can figure out how to relocate them."

"It won't delay site start," Constance said. "Might mess with the programme." She was wearing a Aran jumper d'Artagnan had left behind on one of his many visits to their office. It smelt of olive oil soap and lavender. Athos would have swiped it himself if Constance hadn't got there first. 

"Pre-contract meeting's going ahead tomorrow afternoon, as planned," Athos said.

"You'll be back for that, won't you, love?" Porthos asked Aramis.

Aramis dropped his gaze. "About that..." he said. Porthos's jaw tightened. Aramis ran his fingers along his shirt collar and pulled the fabric away from his skin; broadcasting his discomfort as clearly as if he'd spoken.

"You're staying in Seville." Athos said. _Again_ , he didn't say. 

Aramis nodded. He was project architect for Studio Tréville's Spanish monastery. "Just until the weekend," he said. "Site start's only three weeks away. I've scheduled a presentation to the brothers tomorrow, a design team meeting on Thursday, and I'm seeing the Archbishop on Friday."

"I can deputise for you at the pre-contract meeting," Athos said. "I know the structural design well enough."

"Don't agree to anything!" Aramis said. "If the contractor wants changes, talk to me first."

"If it matters so much, you should be here," Porthos snapped. 

Aramis flinched. Athos didn't know how to comfort Porthos without taking sides. He stuck to business.

"You've worked with Arras Construction before, Constance." Athos said. "Are they likely to try and catch us out?"

Constance cocked her head, considering. "Probably not. They've always been collaborative, although it'll depend on the site agent. Watch out for subcontractors, Porthos. Their own tradespeople are good, but I've had issues with their subbies a couple of times."

Porthos nodded. 

"What else is coming up?" Athos asked. 

"I'm taking on a second studio unit at ENSA Paris-Belleville this semester," Constance said. "My teaching load will double, but I need the money."

"Can we afford to pay ourselves this month?" Porthos asked.

Constance drew the corners of her mouth down and waggled her hand: _comme ci comme ça_. 

"I can get by without," Athos said. 

"I can't," Constance said. "If I don't pay the divorce lawyer soon she'll let Jacques-Michel take the whole damn planet."

Aramis smiled at the Star Trek reference. Porthos didn't.

"Have my share," Athos said. 

"And ours," Aramis said. "We're doing ok."

"Actually," Porthos said, "we're not. The boiler's on the blink again. As you'd know if you'd been home. We either need to get the fan and the pump replaced or buy a new boiler."

Constance and Athos exchanged a glance. 

"Ok," Constance said, briskly. "Porthos and I draw a salary for February. Athos and Aramis don't. Work scheduling next?"

They ran through their priorities for the rest of the week and let the meeting stutter to a close. Porthos grabbed his motorcycle helmet and gauntlets the moment Aramis signed off.

"Going for a ride," he said, stomping out. "Gotta clear my head."

Constance waited for the door to close behind him. "What's going on? Has Aramis met someone in Seville?"

"He _is_ Aramis," Athos said. "I'm sure he has several lovers in Seville. I'm equally sure he's told Porthos about all of them, in eye-opening detail." 

"What, then?"

"I think it's the Archbishop," Athos said. Constance's eyebrows shot up. "Not like that! Well, probably not like that..."

"He is Aramis, after all," Constance said, smiling. "But that's not what Porthos is fretting about?"

Athos shook his head. "He's worried Aramis is building this monastery for himself. Porthos thinks he could loose Aramis to the cloister." 

Constance stared. "Aramis, a _monk_? Never going to happen."

Athos wished he shared her confidence.

# # #

Clarick paged through a print-out of her latest development appraisal, marking typos. She was curled up in a wingback armchair in the window of Café Égalité. Sylvie had found the armchair in a skip, re-upholstered it in an insane striped-and-bobbled fabric, and reorganised the café to set it in the sunniest spot. She'd done that for Clarick; so Clarick could work in comfort at the café. 

Partly, Clarick suspected, so Sylvie and Ninon could snoop on her. 

She capped her fountain pen and threw the report down, its loose-leaf pages fanning across the table. Her girlfriends were welcome to read it. The project was a distribution centre on the A1 Paris-Lille motorway: a big shed. Every bit as dull as every one of her other projects. 

Ninon noticed Clarick had stopped work and brought her a _chocolat chaud_ and a slice of tarte tatin, sliding them onto the table and kissing the top of Clarick's head. Sylvie delivered bowls of soup to the only other people in the café -- an elderly couple, both men in collar and tie, liver-spotted fingers entwined next to the sugar bowl -- and trotted across. She slid onto Clarick's lap. Clarick swept Sylvie's hair aside to kiss her nape, breathing in the coffee-and-coconut scent. The past six months had been tranquil: six months of talking to her therapist and finding ways to cope with flashbacks of the fire; of being cared for by Sylvie and Ninon; of being rewarded for every step forward. Six months of cake and cuddles. 

Six months of boredom. 

"How's the work going?" Sylvie asked. 

"All done." Clarick plaited Sylvie's hair into a loose braid and wrapped it around her hand. "Let's take the afternoon off. Ninon can cope."

"It's CAF day," Sylvie said. Clarick groaned and released Sylvie's hair. 

Sylvie and her do-gooder friends offered advice on _Caisse des Allocations Familiales_ benefits once a month; it meant the café filled with frazzled parents intimidated by CAF staff and struggling with application forms. 

Frazzled parents and their noisy, unwashed infants. 

"I'm leaving," Clarick said. She stood, tipping Sylvie out of her lap. 

Sylvie laughed and stroked Clarick's cheek. "Stay. Please. If you serve I'll be able to rope Ninon in to help people write letters."

Clarick allowed herself to be persuaded. Two hours later she'd made countless steamed-milk babyccinos, none of which she'd been allowed to charge for, and her emerald velvet leggings were smeared with chocolate and poster paints. She leaned on the counter and wished she'd gone home.

The kids with the paints were sitting under their mother's table: a girl and a boy, aged maybe six and seven, both with some Maghrebi heritage. They were painting people in the café; every now and then they'd crawl out from their hiding place, present someone with an inept portrait, and soak up the praise.

The mother, a skinny white goth in too much eyeshadow, looked middle aged but was probably in her early twenties. She had the crow's feet and lined brow of a woman whose youth had been consumed by poverty. She stunk of patchouli. 

"Say I need the laundrette," she told Ninon. Clarick listened in. It didn't sound like a CAF issue. Ninon typed into her laptop. "Say they can't take it away. My landlord won't get us a washing machine and I can't afford one. It's not fair. We don't need another sleazy bar. I'm trying to raise my children right."

"Maybe we could say how far you'd have to walk to get to another laundrette?" Ninon said. "The planning department might listen to that?"

Clarick exploded. She slapped the counter. "Oh, for Cr--" The kids meerkatted up from under the table. Ninon turned a reproachful gaze on Clarick. Clarick lowered her volume and revised her exclamation. "--crying out loud. That's not a valid objection in planning law."

"Thirty-five minutes walk," goth mum said. "Carrying half my bodyweight in laundry and herding these two." She rested her hands on the kids' heads. "Don't tell me that's not valid."

Clarick shrugged. "The _Mairie's_ not going to be interested." She sighed. This was definitely her area of expertise, not Ninon's. "Alright. Start from the beginning."

Ninon slipped out of her seat, gesturing for Clarick to take over. Clarick took a deep breath and marshalled her patience. The resulting letter was surprisingly good. It wouldn't save the laundrette -- nothing would save the laundrette -- but it might stop the premises being taken over by a lap-dancing club. 

The little girl tugged Clarick's sleeve. 

"We painted you," she said, holding up a picture of a misshapen figure. The paint was wet; the paper crinkled. The paint's smell sent Clarick back to _école_. She'd been the best at art; even then she'd loved to eclipse her peers.

Painted Clarick had green eyes and black hair. There was a huge red circle on her blue-triangle body.

"What's the rosette for?" goth mum asked. 

_Rosette. Right._

"Best at helping mummy," the little boy said. 

"Aww," Sylvie said, from the other side of the café, grinning at Clarick.

"Aww," Ninon said, coming across to admire the painting. She squeezed Clarick's shoulders and smiled down at her. Clarick basked in her warmth. 

_I can do this. I can be this person, this_ good _person._

Her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and stilled.

_No. Not now._

Armand Jean Duplessis; the first time he'd called since that evening at Bourbon Developments. She felt a lightness in her chest; a rush of adrenaline.

She could reject the call. 

Her girlfriends were proud of her. They loved her. She was doing the right thing: working in the café, earning steady money through routine jobs, helping people.

It should be enough.

She shook her head. It wasn't. It wasn't anywhere near enough. 

"I need to take this," she said.

She brushed Ninon's hands off and stepped outside.

# # #

Athos pulled up at a red light, next to another cyclist. They exchanged nods, breath blooming in the frigid morning air. Athos clenched his fist, curled his right arm into his body, and massaged it with his left hand. The cold jabbed shards of agony into the recently-healed bone.

He'd agreed to ride to Bourbon Developments with Sylvie, at Porthos's request. He'd barely seen her since his marriage to Clarick had become public knowledge -- he'd only been into Café Égalité a couple of times, always with Porthos or Aramis.

He assumed Clarick had told Sylvie and Ninon everything about the night of the fire. He assumed they hated him. Why wouldn't they? He hated himself half the time. 

He turned onto Rue Demoustier, black ice slippery under his tyres despite the salt on the road. Sylvie stood outside the café, holding her bike, tall and lean in black lycra shorts. Athos's heart thumped. He'd only ever seen her in voluminous skirts. She swung herself onto her saddle as he approached, slowing. Her legs weren't shaved. He gulped, losing all power of coherent thought as his blood rushed south. 

"It was my father's," Sylvie said. 

Athos gawked. It took him far too long to realise she meant the bike. She hadn't realised he'd been ogling her legs -- or, more likely, was overlooking his boorishness. 

He took a deep breath. "It's not what I'd have expected," he said. It was an ancient drop-handlebar road bike: 1970s Tour de France chic. He'd imagined her on an old-fashioned step-through; perhaps a yellow post bike. "Nor's the outfit."

She looked him up and down. "Some of us wear cycling gear to cycle. Why are you in a suit?"

"This meeting's important." He panicked, imagining her in Anne Autriche's office wearing skintight lycra. "You are going to change when we get there?"

Sylvie laughed at him and pedalled away. 

At Bourbon Developments they were shown into a waiting room off Anne Autriche's top-floor office. It smelt of hyacinths; an excess of white blooms filled a spherical glass vase on the coffee table. Porthos was the only one there, drinking espresso and flicking through his notes. From the look of the bags under his eyes, he'd barely slept. He had trimmed his beard.

"Great frock," he greeted Sylvie, standing. She'd fished a smart dress in navy blue wool out of her bike's panniers when they arrived, shaken it out, and made Athos turn away as she pulled it on over her cycling gear. 

She gave Porthos a double air kiss. "I'm disappointed in you two, sartorially," she said. They both wore black suits; Athos with a black shirt open at the neck, Porthos in a pink shirt and black tie. "Clarick told me you'd wear team colours."

Athos stared at his feet, his cheeks warming. Sylvie didn't hate him. She thought he was ridiculous.

"How do you know we're not?" Porthos asked. "Constance bought us all sky blue boxers for Christmas."

The door behind them opened before the ground could swallow Athos. Sylvie hid her giggle behind her hand. One of Anne Autriche's assistants ushered the rest of the consultants into the waiting room, opened the office door, and waved them all inside. The office was large -- bigger than Porthos and Aramis's garret apartment -- and held an immense timber conference table. Anne Autrich sat at its head, a petite blonde woman on her left and a faded redhead to her right.

The blonde bore a striking resemblance to Flea. Porthos's expression softened, his guardian-angel instincts triggered. The blonde stood as they approached, revealing a pregnancy belly. Porthos's hands curled protectively. 

They found seats: Porthos taking the foot of the table and the others pretending not to jostle for position. Athos found himself in the middle, next to Sylvie. The client project manager, next to the redhead, looked pleased with herself.

_Interesting._ Athos contemplated the redhead. She sat straight-backed; she had fantastic bone structure and sad eyes. _Who is she, and why does she have power here?_

"Thank you all for coming," Anne Autriche said. "This is a flagship project for Bourbon Developments: we've hired the best possible team to deliver an iconic building." She smiled warmly down the table. "I'm going to ask you to introduce yourselves and then hand over to Porthos du Vallon to chair the meeting."

Porthos picked up a Bourbon Developments rollerball, flipped open his notebook and sketched a diagram of the table. He appended a name to the chairs as each person spoke. 

The blonde opened. "Elodie Labouret, Arras Construction," she said. "Site agent."

Porthos noted it down. The quantity surveyor was next; Athos had worked with him before. Then it was Athos's turn.

"Athos de la Fère, Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon. I'm deputising for my colleague Aramis d'Herblay, the project's structural engineer."

"Where is Aramis?" Anne asked. 

"He sends his apologies," Athos said. "He was unavoidably detained in Seville."

Porthos's lip curled. 

"Seville, again," Anne said, her expression the twin of Porthos's. She turned her attention to Sylvie.

"Sylvie Boden, convener of Greening the City." Sylvie grinned, cheeky. "Community volunteer."

The project manager frowned and shifted in her seat. Sylvie straightened, a challenge on her face. Porthos leant forward. 

"I asked Sylvie to join us," he said. "We have something of an owl problem." A flutter of laughter dispersed the tension. "Greening the City has some ideas about moving them into nesting boxes."

"It'll depend if they're incubating eggs," Sylvie said. 

"Is it owl breeding season?" the project manager asked.

"Yes," Elodie said. _Impressive._ She'd done her research.

Porthos continued the introductions.

"Porthos du Vallon, Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon. Project architect."

The M&E engineer, on Porthos's left, was another familiar face. The project manager, Lucie de Foix, was from a firm they knew.

"Agnes Bernard," the redhead said, last to speak. "I'm new to Bourbon Developments." She lowered her eyes to her hands, clasped on the table. "I'm Anne's sister-in-law."

"Agnes is an interior designer," Anne said. "She'll be working on the show flat."

Athos managed to not roll his eyes. He didn't look at Porthos, knowing he would be having the same struggle. They'd encountered too many rich women who thought themselves interior designers because their friends had complimented their choice of cushions and curtains. 

Still: the show flat. How much trouble could she cause?

"Thank you, everyone," Porthos said, nodding around the table. "Let's start with the programme. We won't have access to the north part of the site until we resolve the owl situation. We're going to have to re-jig the build order."

Elodie passed around Gantt charts and a site plan with three areas labelled. "I've come up with a three-phase programme," she said. "We can stick to the original fifteen-month contract period provided we get access to the north side of the site by June." She turned to Sylvie. "Is that possible?"

Sylvie spread her hands. "I don't know yet. We need to get someone up to the owl's nest to look for eggs."

Sylvie and Elodie discussed the practicalities of owl-nest access, giving Porthos, Athos and Lucie de Foix time to examine the programme. 

"This could work," Porthos said. 

"No need to sound so surprised," Elodie said.

"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed."

Anne Autriche's assistant crept into the room. She bent to whisper into Anne's ear. 

"Put it on," Anne said. The assistant switched on a plasma screen on the wall behind Porthos. They turned to watch a news report. A placard-waving crowd blocked the entrance to their site and surrounded one of the demolition contractor's vans. Athos counted upwards of a hundred people. 

_HOMES FOR LOCALS_ , said the placards, and _COMMUNITY BEFORE PROFIT_. A banner -- professionally printed, not a painted sheet -- read _LOCAL NEED NOT BOURBON GREED_.

Anne paled. 

"Looks like we need to programme in some community engagement," Lucie de Foix said, her jokey tone sounding hollow. 

Porthos and Sylvie glanced at each other, brows furrowed. 

"They're not locals," Porthos said, gently, as if not wanting to insult them by stating the obvious.

Athos looked around the table. Everyone except Sylvie looked as confused as Athos felt. He raised an eyebrow.

"Look at them," Sylvie said, not at all gentle. "They're all white. Ever been to the second arrondissement for udon?" 

Athos nodded, getting it. "Where are the Japanese protestors?"

"And the older people," Sylvie said. "They're all young, but not student-young. They're, what, mostly late twenties? Why aren't they at work?"

Anne answered the question, her voice hard. "Because this _is_ their work. Someone has hired those people to disrupt my development."

Porthos pointed at a group of fake protesters putting up a tent. "Hired them for a while, by the looks of it."


	2. The Falling of the Dusk

Clarick slipped into the Basilique Saint-Denis as the congregation were leaving nine o'clock mass on Friday morning. She positioned herself half-way up the nave, at the outside end of a row, in the shadow of a massive clustered column. The church emptied. Clarick shifted in the rush-seated chair and adjusted her greatcoat's hood, making sure her face was concealed. 

Saint-Denis was way out at the far end of line 13, a thirty minute Métro ride from Sylvie and Ninon. Her girlfriends would be busy in Café Égalité. 

Still, Clarick couldn't shake off the feeling they were watching her.

_Is this how it feels to have a conscience?_

She didn't like it.

The clerestory windows glimmered in the weak sunlight. Translucent purples, pinks and yellows flitted across Gothic stonework. Clarick pulled out her sketchpad and a pencil and began to draw, her fingers stiff with cold. She'd started carrying a sketchpad as a student and had never lost the habit. It calmed her.

Footsteps, slow-paced and deliberate, echoed around the space. Duplessis, boot heels clicking against the flagstones, advanced. His long black cashmere coat, unbuttoned and scarlet-lined, swirled behind him. He wore black leather gloves and a black beanie.

"How very cloak and dagger," he said, taking the seat behind Clarick, forcing her to twist to see him. "Is this entirely necessary?" 

"Athos believes I no longer work for you," Clarick said. "It would benefit us both to keep him in ignorance."

"Ah. This is about Athos."

"It is about furthering your aims. I assume it is Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon you wish to discuss?"

Duplessis leaned forward. He gestured at her hood. Clarick, reluctantly, pushed it down to her shoulders. 

"Your protesters are proving effective," Clarick said. "Congratulations."

Duplessis frowned, eyes flinty. "They are not _my_ protesters. I want you to determine who hired them."

"The enemy of your enemy..." Clarick said. 

"...may be a more formidable enemy," Duplessis said. "Find them."

"I will see to it," Clarick said, rising. Duplessis clapped his hand onto her shoulder and forced her back into her seat.

"I have a second commission," he said, tightening his grip. His fingers dug in, hard enough to bruise.

Clarick swallowed. She looked down her nose at Duplessis's hand, determined not to show emotion, and waited. He withdrew. 

"Tell me," she said.

Duplessis outlined his requirements. 

Cold radiated from the column next to Clarick and settled deep in her bones. A voice in her head enumerated the reasons for its disappointment. It wasn't her conscience. It was Sylvie. 

Clarick rubbed the back of her neck, pushing her fingers under her neckerchief and running them along the ridged scar tissue. Duplessis asked too much. This wasn't something Sylvie would find amusingly subversive. It wasn't something Ninon could excuse because of Clarick's suffering at the hands of the de la Fère brothers.

If she accepted this job and Sylvie and Ninon found out, their relationship would be over. _Can I take that risk?_

She bowed her head, clasping her hands together and bringing them to her lips. 

She remembered the boring commissions she'd trudged through during the past six months. The bitterness of tendering for work requiring only a tiny percentage of her capabilities. The sheer mundane grind of it all.

She pictured Sylvie smiling at her over the breakfast table; Sylvie's boundless morning energy. She saw Ninon's bleary-eyed disorientation, and her delighted beam when Clarick handed her the day's first cup of coffee.

She shook her head. 

"No," she said. "My skills do not extend in that direction. I will uncover the power behind the protesters. I will not do _that_."

Duplessis ran a gloved finger along her jaw. She shuddered. 

"Very well," he said. "I shall do it myself." He stood. "Far be it from me to proffer relationship advice--"

"Don't."

He shrugged. "You're probably right," he said.

He swept down the aisle, coat billowing. Clarick pinched her bottom lip.

_Did I just do the right thing?_

# # #

Athos drove Aramis's yellow Vespa to the airport after lunch on Friday. He hadn't ridden a scooter in years. He took back roads; puttered along carefully. The first primroses bloomed bright along the verges, defying the cold. Chill seeped through Athos's leather jacket and set his right arm throbbing. 

He made it to Orly Airport with five minutes to spare, manoeuvred into the motorcycle lane, and parked in short stay. He reached the arrivals lounge as Aramis strolled through the gate, swinging his carry-on bag. Aramis beamed, dropped the bag, and kissed Athos before pulling him into a tight hug. He smelt wrong: hotel shower gel instead of the cedarwood body wash he shared with Porthos.

Aramis shivered. "You're freezing. It was seventeen degrees in Seville this morning."

"It's barely four degrees out there," Athos said. "Welcome home."

Aramis slung his arm around Athos's shoulder as they threaded their way across the concourse. 

"I'm not complaining," Aramis said, "but I had expected Porthos."

"One of his students is having a crisis."

They shared a wry look. Pastoral care wasn't officially part of Porthos's role as a part-time architecture tutor, but it hadn't taken long before the students starting bringing him their personal issues as well as their design problems. 

The journey back into Paris was exhilarating. Aramis drove with panache, accelerating smoothly and leaning into the corners. Athos held onto Aramis's waist with both hands, clenched his thighs around the seat, and curled up his leg to keep it away from the hot exhaust. He listened to the engine revs and braced himself for gear changes, his stomach muscles tense. He found himself grinning as they sped past Notre-Dame and across the Pont Neuf.

They parked a few streets down from Studio Tréville. Aramis babbled as they walked, his French peppered with Spanish words as he described Seville: late oranges still plump on the trees; a flamenco bar in Triana; a church Athos would love -- "The roof folds into a bell tower. The section's _amazing_."

Athos smiled to himself. Coming home always hit Aramis the same way. He'd be hyperactive for hours, and then exhaustion would knock him out and he'd crash for the best part of a day.

"Porthos is going to make me ratatouille tonight," Aramis said. "Porthos makes the best ratatouille."

"Porthos missed you," Athos said.

"Didn't you keep him company?"

"I kept him working."

Aramis laughed. They swung into the office. Tréville was sitting at his desk, on the phone. He held up a hand to halt them, and muffled the phone against his shirtfront.

"I need you back in Seville," he said. 

Aramis's bonhomie dropped away.

"We agreed two days every fortnight," he said. "I've already done more than that this week."

"There's an issue with the building licence."

"It can wait." Aramis walked past.

" _Aramis._ "

Conversations stopped mid-sentence. The plan printer hummed. A drawing dropped into the printer's rack, its clatter loud in the sudden hush.

Aramis whirled. " _I'm_ running the project. It's my call. It can wait."

"Are you questioning my judgement?"

Aramis narrowed his eyes. "It's been poor before."

"Be careful, Aramis." Tréville stood. "This isn't a discussion. You will be in Seville for a 10am meeting on Monday. You can fly Sunday night or catch the red eye, I don't mind."

Aramis and Tréville glared at each other. Athos held his breath. Aramis looked away first, his head drooping. 

"Fine," he said, running his fingers through his hair. "I'll fly Monday."

# # #

Athos finished roughing out a suite of roof details for Tréville's Place des Reflets project and handed them to d'Artagnan to draw up. The lad examined the sketches with far too much enthusiasm for four-thirty on a Friday. 

"It can wait until next week," Athos said. 

D'Artagnan scampered away. "I'll do it now," he said over his shoulder. "Won't take long."

Athos's phone rang. Unknown number. 

"Athos de la Fère."

"Athos."

He froze. _Clarick_. 

"No," he said, and ended the call, shaking. He'd thought he was over her, yet a single word had unmanned him. The phone beeped. 

A text: _Suppose I have information for you?_

He deleted it.

The phone rang again. Porthos. Thank God.

"Can you meet me at the Court of Miracles site office when you leave Tréville's?" Porthos asked.

"The site office? Won't they have gone home hours ago?"

"That's sort of the problem," Porthos said. "Elodie's planning to stay all weekend."

# # #

Athos zig-zagged through the twilight of evening rush hour, the flash of his bike lights reflecting off signs and shop windows. A bus blared its horn as he cut across it; Athos grinned and took a sharp right, leaving the driver fuming.

Arras Construction hadn't been allowed to set up a site hut. Bourbon Developments, on the advice of their PR team, had promised not to start work until they'd held talks with the protesters. It had proved challenging to agree a date for the meeting -- the protesters were expert in delaying tactics. In the meantime, Arras had rented a fifth-floor room in a serviced office building opposite the site. Elodie's joiners had lined the walls with custom-made framed corkboards; the scent of sawdust lingered. She'd pinned up a three-metre-long blow-up of the programme, a full set of general arrangement drawings, and the usual health and safety posters. All very professional.

A drawing pin caught Athos's attention. Did it have... _eyes?_ He leaned in. The pinhead was decorated with a doodled owl. He checked out the other pins. Most were plain white. A couple of dozen held owls. 

He could grow to like this woman. 

He crossed to join Porthos in the window reveal. They bumped shoulders and stared down at the site. Porthos looked drained. The protesters' tent village had two new banners: cartoon tawny owls, labelled _Belle_ and _Sébastien_.

"When did they name the owls?" Athos asked. 

"Wednesday, after they dive-bombed a traffic warden," Elodie said. She sat in an Aeron chair, her totector wellies kicked off, sorting through a stack of delivery notes. "There's even a Twitter account now: _@BelleEtSebChouettes_."

Porthos looked up the account and passed his phone to Athos. 

      _@BelleEtSebChouettes_  
     Bourbon Developments is destroying our home  
     RT to support families priced out of the Court of Miracles  
      _7898 retweets_

"It's Bourbon he's going after," Porthos said. "Not Arras Construction, and not us."

"Makes a nice change," Athos said. Elodie gave him a keen glance. He shook his head. "Long story."

"You know who's behind this?" Elodie asked. 

"We have our suspicions," Porthos said. 

Elodie held up a piece of paper. "Would he be interested in several thousand wall ties?" she asked. "Or a lifetime's supply of DPC?"

Athos quirked an eyebrow.

"This is why we're here," Porthos said.

"It's why _I'm_ here," Elodie said. "I'm not sure why _you're_ here."

Athos cleared his throat. "I remain uncertain of the reason any of us are here."

"We've managed to get deliveries through to the site," Elodie said. "The protesters aren't dedicated enough to stand in front of a lorry."

"Don't suppose they're getting paid enough," Porthos said. 

"I want to have materials ready so we can start as soon as we take possession of the site. Anne Autriche agreed, unofficially. But, things have been going missing overnight."

"What about site security?" Athos asked. "Or CCTV?"

"I can't arrange it until we officially have possession," Elodie said. "Which means our insurers are refusing to pay out. I'm going to keep watch tonight."

She gestured at a pair of binoculars on the window sill. Athos picked them up and peered at the site. The magnification gave a pretty good view. Still...

"There's no lighting on site. Once it's fully dark you won't be able to see a thing."

"Once it's fully dark I'm going to patrol."

Porthos folded his arms and glowered. "It's not safe."

"This is my site. I'll lose my job if the profit margin gets stolen before we even break ground. I'm not going to sit by and let that happen."

"Porthos has a point," Athos said. "Disturbing a thief may not be the best route to a long and happy life."

"Think about it, though," Elodie said. "People are awake in that camp 24-7. They'd see anyone who went into the site."

"You think the protesters are the thieves," Athos said.

"The protesters, or whoever hired them," Elodie said. "It has to be. It's another way of disrupting the work."

"And if they sell the stuff on the black market it'd pay some of their costs," Porthos said. It made sense. Athos had wondered how Armand Duplessis was financing his scheme.

Elodie nodded. "I think they'll stay away if they see I'm on site. They're not desperate, and they're not criminals. Well, not exactly criminals. Not violent criminals."

"What about the homicidal birds?" Porthos asked. "Tawny owls hunt at night and can fly silently. Something to do with their feathers. I read it on Wikipedia."

Elodie turned to her computer, opened a file, and tilted the screen towards Athos and Porthos. It showed a photo of a hole in a wall, floored with twigs. 

"Belle and Sébastien's nest," Elodie said. "No eggs."

"How did you get the photo?" Athos asked.

"Telephoto lens." Elodie nodded at the window. "We hired a wildlife photographer to get the shot from up here."

"That's the first good news I've had all week," Porthos said. "Does it mean we can move them to a nesting box?"

Elodie nodded. "It also means they don't have a reason to protect their nest. They're territorial, but they're getting used to people being on site. They haven't attacked anyone for a couple of days."

"Doesn't mean it's safe for you overnight," Porthos said.

"The thieves aren't scared off by the owls," Elodie said. "Why should I be?"

"Because nocturnal stealth predators are fucking terrifying?" Porthos said. 

Elodie nodded at one of her posters: _No hat, no boots, no JOB!_ "I'll wear my hard hat," she said.

"You'll need some sleep," Athos said. "What if we take watches?" 

"In pairs," Porthos said.

"I'll call Constance," Athos said. Aramis wouldn't be any good to them until he'd had a decent night's rest.

Elodie looked as if she might refuse. She didn't.

"I'll take first watch," she said. "Now till midnight."

"I'll join you," Porthos said. 

Athos inhaled sharply. Aramis would be asleep well before midnight. Porthos hadn't even seen him yet. "Aren't you making ratatouille?"

"I'll cook tomorrow. Not that Aramis deserves it. He's agreed to go to Seville again on Monday."

"Tréville didn't give him a choice."

Porthos stared at his feet. "There's always a choice. He seems to be choosing to stay away from me."

No-one spoke. Elodie hauled herself to her feet and lumbered to the window. She took Porthos's hand and held it between both of hers.

# # #

Athos took a taxi to site, picking Constance up on the way. They arrived about ten to midnight. The tent village blazed with light: chains of bulbs powered by a rumbling generator, a smoky oil drum fire, and the blue light of dozens of mobile and tablet screens. Protesters sprawled in deck chairs, layered jumpers bulky under their coats, drinking bottled beers.

Constance greeted the protesters as they passed. They replied cheerfully and politely, in accents Athos hated himself for classifying as bourgeois. The site gates were open. Two beams of light to the east -- one about thirty centimetres higher than the other -- had to be Porthos and Elodie.

Athos and Constance donned their hard hats. Athos had brought two bike lights as torches. He held one out. 

"I'm good," Constance said, bringing out a bike light of her own and switching it on. "I borrowed d'Artagnan's."

"You're borrowing a lot from d'Artagnan," Athos said. 

"He's always leaving his things lying around," Constance said, striding ahead. Athos fumbled for his light's switch and followed. By the time he caught up Constance had introduced herself to Elodie and the two of them were deep in conversation. Athos, listening in, found out answers to all the questions he hadn't dared ask. Elodie's baby was due in June, her partner had left soon after she got pregnant, and she'd been managing sites for Arras Construction for six years.

"Seen anyone?" Athos asked Porthos. 

"Nah," Porthos said, yawning. "Not so much as a mouse."

"You've got the owls to thank for that," Athos said. 

"Yeah," Porthos said, through another yawn. His jaw cracked. "Hold on. What's that?"

They turned. A tall figure, clothed in black, scurried across the site. 

"Oy!" Elodie yelled. 

The figure hesitated, then darted towards the gates. They jogged to intercept it, torches held high. Their light hit...

... _four_ pairs of wide-open eyes.

Athos halted, not believing what he saw.


	3. Auld Alliance

Clarick clung to the edge of her seat, white knuckled, as Sylvie took the corner too fast. The borrowed minibus's tyres screeched. Clarick, in the middle, toppled into Ninon. Ninon, riding shotgun, wrapped her arms around Clarick. They overbalanced and crashed into the door, laughing. The smell of burnt rubber swirled from the air blowers. 

"I thought you'd driven this before?" Clarick said, attempting to untangle her seatbelt and sit up.

"I've watched other people drive it," Sylvie said. 

"You know you can't teach yourself everything?" Ninon said, helping Clarick. "We all need lessons sometimes."

"Says the teacher," Sylvie said, taking the final turn more sedately. The minibus's headlights raked across a tent village as they pulled up, lighting up the anti-Bourbon Developments banners. Sylvie yanked on the hand break and turned off the ignition. "Ready?"

They each pulled on thin leather gloves. Sylvie handed torches to Ninon and Clarick. Ninon checked her pocket, curling her lip at its contents. 

"Ready," Ninon said, opening the door. 

Clarick reached over to the seat behind for the wicker basket they'd bought. It was roomy, with a sturdy handle; the sort of thing Red Riding Hood would have taken to visit her Grandmother. 

"Ready," Clarick said, sliding out and jumping to the pavement, basket in hand. One of the protesters raised his beer bottle to her. She nodded acknowledgement. 

"I can see him," Sylvie said, pointing at a cluster of light in the middle of the empty building site. "Uh, _them?_ "

There were definitely several beams of light. Four? Five? More? They weren't moving.

_What are we walking into?_

"Let's go," Ninon said, striding ahead. Sylvie and Clarick fell into line behind her. Their torch beams played over rutted, frozen mud. A crescent moon glimmered. The sounds of the protest camp and the street fell away; they could have been in the middle of nowhere, not the centre of Paris.

The basket bumped awkwardly against Clarick's thigh.

"Five people," Sylvie said.

Clarick strained to see. One black-clad silhouette. Four white hard hats glinting in the moonlight. 

"Damn," she said, putting her hand on her head. She was wearing a crocheted beret. Ninon had on a bobble hat. Sylvie had wrapped a scarf around her hair. "The owls. What if they attack?"

Ninon halted, staring up at the sky. Sylvie crashed into her. Clarick stopped before piling into the back of Sylvie, then thought about it and stepped in to hug them both one-handed. 

Laughter cut through the quiet: an unrestrained, infectious rumble.

They disentangled, smiling, and sped towards the laughter. They found a semi-circle of people confronting an offended Armand Duplessis: Porthos guffawing; the Bonacieux woman snorting inelegantly; a pregnant blonde snickering, her hand over her mouth; even Athos chuckling.

" _What?_ " Duplessis said. 

His brows slanted; angry diagonals. His eyes bulged. His beaky nose protruded.

He looked _exactly_ like the three baby owls he was carrying. 

Clarick sniggered. Sylvie clutched Ninon. The pair of them convulsed into giggles. 

"Yes, yes," Duplessis said, "this is hilarious, I'm sure." 

One of the owlets looked up at him, wide-eyed. The other two snuggled into each other, half-closing their dark eyes and fluffing out their downy feathers. Duplessis had tucked them into the front of his coat. His arm, crooked across his chest, held them in place. The more annoyed he got, the more he resembled the owls.

He scowled. "Perhaps we can move on?"

Porthos bent over, trying to catch his breath. "You... do... know?" he said between gasps.

"Know what?" Duplessis snapped. He glared at them. The owlets followed suit. Porthos sank back into helpless laughter.

Clarick drew herself up to her full height. She handed the basket to Sylvie and crossed her arms. "The owls are your Mini-Mes. It's uncanny."

Sylvie held out the basket. "Hand them over, owlfather."

Duplessis huffed and half turned away, gathering the owlets more closely. 

"Hold on," Porthos wheezed, his hands on his knees. "I need a photo of this."

Duplessis tutted and rolled his eyes.

"I'm way ahead of you," the Bonacieux woman said, lining her phone up. The flash illuminated three startled owlets, one pissed-off Duplessis--

\--and one diving adult owl.

Clarick ducked. 

Duplessis flung the owlets into Sylvie's basket and fled, elbows and knees pumping. 

The owl's talons closed around the bobble of Ninon's hat. She screamed. 

The owl tore the hat off and ascended, wingbeats near-silent.

Porthos grabbed the Bonacieux woman and the blonde and ran after Duplessis. Clarick took the basket so Sylvie could wrap her arms around Ninon, unharmed but shaken, and lead her away at a jog. The owlets flapped their fluffy wings to right themselves and looked up at Clarick. She tucked the basket's handle over her arm. It was even more awkward to carry when full of owl babies. 

"Here," Athos said, taking off his hard hat. 

It had been a long while since Athos had protected her. She nearly refused, before remembering the look on Ninon's face when the owl attacked. She wanted that hard hat. And an argument would delay their escape. She wedged the hat on over her beret, tightening the strap with a ratcheting _click-click-click_. 

Athos took the basket. He draped his scarf over it, hiding the owlets.

"To keep them away from the protester's prying cameras," he said, trudging after the others. Clarick followed, her instinct to run overridden by the habit of not showing fear in front of Athos. By the time they reached the pavement an argument was well under way.

"Just get in," Sylvie snapped, with an end-of-her tether hand gesture. 

Duplessis stared at the minibus in horror. "I am _not_ being seen in that thing."

The Bonacieux woman looked at the bus's rainbow pride paint job with admiration. "We need one of these," she said. "It's perfect for you boys."

Athos raised an eyebrow at her. Porthos gripped Duplessis's upper arm and dragged him to the passenger door. He shoved him, protesting, into the middle seat and took the door seat himself, trapping Duplessis. Sylvie took the driver's seat. The others climbed into the back. Clarick clunked the back doors shut and nodded to Sylvie. She pulled away, slow and careful.

"I'm calling the police," the blonde announced. 

"Wait up, Elodie," Porthos said. He had his own phone out. "This might be a bit complicated for the police."

"I'm having him for trespass," the blonde -- Elodie -- said, nodding at Duplessis. "I've no idea if whatever he was doing with the baby owls was criminal, but he shouldn't have been doing it on my site."

"Incidentally," Athos said. He'd put the owl-basket on the seat next to him and was typing on his phone. "What _were_ you doing with the baby owls?"

Duplessis kept his eyes front. "Are we calling the police?" he asked. "Because I'm sure they'll be fascinated by your ex's activities."

Clarick tallied the reactions. The Bonacieux woman and Porthos, in the middle of a muttered phone conversation, shrugged. Elodie looked confused. Ninon hissed. Sylvie stiffened. Athos...

Athos closed his eyes, clearly wishing he was somewhere, anywhere, else. 

"Can we defer the decision on calling the police?" Athos asked. 

Duplessis smiled over his shoulder. "Drop me off at the corner," he said. "I'll get a taxi from here."

Porthos hung up his call. "No chance," he said. "We're going to Studio Tréville. Tréville'll meet us there. Take the next left, please, Sylvie."

Sylvie caught Clarick's eyes in the rearview mirror. Clarick nodded her acceptance. Tréville would be too concerned about his precious Athos to allow police involvement. Sylvie flicked on her indicators and followed Porthos's directions.

# # #

Athos found himself carrying a picnic basket of owls towards Studio Tréville. They'd had to park half a mile away; Sylvie had needed a very big space in which to parallel park. 

"Do we have a plan for the owlets?" Athos asked. It said a lot about the evening that becoming guardian to a trio of owlets wasn't the most disconcerting thing that had happened. 

"They have to go to an owl rehabilitator," Ninon said. "We've got one lined up; we'll deliver them tomorrow."

 _An owl rehabilitator?_ Athos shook his head and decided not to ask. "How do we look after them in the meantime?"

"I've got instructions for checking whether they've been fed," Ninon said. 

"What do baby owls eat?" Elodie asked. She and Constance had linked arms.

"Frozen mice," Ninon said, ferreting in her pocket and pulling out a ziploc bag full of furry bodies.

"Eww," everyone chorused. 

"I hope they're properly defrosted," Ninon said. "Do you have a microwave in the office?"

" _Eww!_ " 

"You are _not_ defrosting dead mice in Tréville's microwave," Porthos said, reaching the front door and punching in the entry code. He ushered Armand inside. The others followed. Tréville got up from his desk and watched them trail in.

"You," he said, pointing at Clarick. "Meeting room. Now." Clarick, to Athos's amazement, didn't protest. She walked meekly to the glass-walled room and took a seat. Tréville put his hands flat on his desk and glared at the rest of them. "I'll deal with you next," he said. 

Armand lounged against a desk. "Who died and made you headmaster?" Tréville's glare sharpened. Armand raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. We'll do it your way. For now."

Tréville turned his back on Armand and marched into the meeting room to confront Clarick. The door swung shut behind him. The door from the kitchenette opened. 

"D'Artagnan?" Constance said. "What are you doing here?"

D'Artagnan emerged from the kitchenette with a tray of coffees. "I was working late. Then Tréville showed up. Now I'm hanging around to point and laugh at your latest escapade."

Constance thumped his shoulder. Coffee sloshed over mug brims.

"Hey!" d'Artagnan said, putting down the tray. He'd brought the bag of sugar, a bottle of milk, and a mismatched handful of teaspoons. "I didn't know what everyone took. Help yourselves." He glanced around the group, taking in Elodie's pregnancy belly. "I think we've got chamomile?"

Elodie smiled her thanks and and settled into Tréville's chair. "Chamomile would be lovely."

Armand cleared his throat. 

"I'll have chamomile too," he said. He recoiled from the looks thrown his way. " _What?_ I don't sleep so well these days. It's my advancing years."

"Or your unquiet conscience," Athos said. 

D'Artagnan peered into the picnic basket.

"Do you need some water for your pet owls?" he asked Athos. Athos shrugged and looked at Ninon. 

"No," Ninon said. "They get enough water from their food."

"They drink blood?" Porthos asked, shuddering. Armand smiled. 

The front door slammed open. Aramis stumbled through it, wearing one of Porthos's jumpers over striped pyjamas, his feet jammed into unlaced trainers. 

"Athos told me I was missing all the fun," he said. "What's going--" He broke off, spotting the owlets and heading towards them, snagging a mug of coffee on the way. "Aww, adorable. You didn't tell me you'd adopted, Athos."

"They look kind of familiar," d'Artagnan said, glancing between the owlets and Armand. Elodie laughed. Armand bared gritted teeth. 

"Do we really have to do this again?" he asked.

The printer on Tréville's desk whirred into life. 

"That's Clarick's consultancy agreement," Sylvie said as the first page came out, a question in her voice. 

Clarick swept out of the meeting room, gathered the printout, and presented it to Tréville. Everyone watched as first Tréville and then Clarick signed. Clarick re-capped her fountain pen, folded the signed agreement, and tucked it into her pocket. She exited the meeting room with her head held high and triumph in her eyes.

"You're up next," she said to Armand. He grimaced but obeyed, at a funereal pace to emphasise his reluctance.

"We're working with you now?" Porthos asked Clarick. 

"I'm working for Tréville," Clarick said. "I'm merely _collaborating_ with you."

"We're not the bad guys here," Porthos said. 

Clarick tossed her head. 

"Look at this," Aramis said. He'd perched on Samara's desk and was staring into the meeting room. Armand and Tréville sat on opposite sides of the table, leaning in. Armand's right elbow was on the table, his right hand spread. Tréville's left hand mirrored the gesture. Their fingers were nearly touching. Their gazes were locked on each other. 

Porthos sat next to Aramis, lifting his arm to let Aramis snuggle close. 

"You could cut the UST in there with a knife," Porthos said. 

Athos and d'Artagnan joined them. Tréville's tongue darted out to lick his lips. Armand smiled. Athos raised his eyebrows and nodded agreement at Porthos. 

D'Artagnan pulled a face. "But they're ancient," he said. 

Porthos and Aramis shared an amused grin.

"You must have noticed Tréville's a very attractive man," Porthos said. 

D'Artagnan's nose crinkled in disgust.

Aramis grinned. "And Adèle tells me Duplessis has a--"

"Whoa!" d'Artagnan held his hands up. "I will _pay_ you to never finish that sentence."

"How much?" Aramis asked. 

Tréville raised his head, spotted them lined up and watching, and threw his hands in the air. He stalked to the door. 

"Come in, then," he said. "Seeing as you're all so interested."

"Whatever you say, boss," Porthos said. Tréville cuffed him.

"I'm not your boss any more," he said. "How come you're still bringing me your problems?"

"We know how much you love straightening us out," Aramis said. 

Tréville snorted. "That'll be the day." 

Armand, still seated, sighed theatrically. "Could we move this along? Some of us would like to get to our beds tonight."

Athos elbowed Aramis before he could comment on whose bed Armand might want to spend the night. They took seats and waited for Tréville to speak. 

"Clarick has something to show us," Tréville said. 

Clarick slid her phone into the middle of the table. 

"Your building site thief," she announced. "I got a photo from one of the protesters."

The photo showed a handsome black man with an earflap hat drawn down over high cheekbones.

"Charon!" Porthos said, his hands curling into fists. 

"Charon?" Elodie said, her hands spreading protectively over her bump.

They stared at each other in shock.


	4. Family

"Charon? C-H-A-R-O-N, like the ferryman?" Clarick said, taking notes. Her contact in the protest camp hadn't been able to identify the building site thief. "Family name?"

Porthos and Elodie both laughed -- bitter curls of sound; his blunted, hers like the twist of a knife in an open wound. 

"He just goes by Charon," Porthos said. "No family."

"By his own choice," Elodie said, hands resting on her pregnancy bump. 

"So our thief is a rootless deadbeat," Duplessis said. 

Porthos slammed a fist onto the table. Clarick's phone jumped and skidded; she caught it and placed it out of range of Porthos's fury. 

"He's not a deadbeat," Porthos said. "And I don't believe he's a thief."

Everyone avoided his eyes. Clarick took a sip of coffee. Her photo showed Charon using a flickknife to cut the shrink wrap off a pallet of steel reinforcing bar, on a deserted building site, in the middle of the night. It was hard to explain as anything other than theft, although the black market value of rebar seemed unlikely to be worth the effort of hauling it away.

"He's trying to get back at me," Elodie said. "He doesn't think I should have this job."

"Because you're pregnant with his child?" Ninon asked. "Did he want you at home keeping house and cooking his dinner?"

Elodie shook her head. "Because he believes he should have got the job. We both worked at Arras Construction; it's how we met. We were both in the running for the Court of Miracles contract. When I won he tried to persuade me to turn it down, then told our boss my pregnancy meant I wasn't fit to do the work."

Ninon muttered under her breath. The Bonacieux woman laid a gentle hand on Elodie's shoulder. Porthos scowled. 

"Turned out my boss, who's generally a hard-nosed bastard, was a better man than the father of my child," Elodie said. "He refused, Charon walked out, and I haven't seen him since. This," she waved at Clarick's phone, "is his revenge. He's trying to get me sacked."

"And leave you to bring up his child while unemployed and destitute?" Sylvie said. "Charming fellow."

"He is," Porthos said. "When he wants to be. But he's always been selfish, and..." he broke off, looking down at the table. Athos frowned at Aramis. Aramis mouthed back a word, perhaps a name -- _Bea_ , maybe. Clarick wrote it down, with two trailing question marks. She'd ask later. Porthos scrubbed his hand over his face. "And... he can be dangerous when he's crossed," he said. 

"Fascinating though this is," Duplessis said, stroking his chin; making a performance of his boredom, "I fail to see how it assists us."

Tréville held up his hand to forestall the angry comments. "Armand's not wrong. Ill-mannered, but not wrong." Duplessis widened his eyes, mock-wounded. Treville ignored him. "It's unlikely Charon has the resources to pay the protesters, and his agenda doesn't match theirs. His vendetta is against Elodie and Arras, not Bourbon Developments. He's not behind the protest. He's not the one who's shut down your site."

"He could be working for whoever is," Athos said. 

"I'll look into it," Clarick said. She glanced at Porthos and Elodie, fountain pen poised. "I need you to tell me everything you can about this Charon."

"Why don't you ask the protesters who hired them?" d'Artagnan said. 

"I've asked," Clarick said, leaving the _you fool_ off her sentence but keeping it in her tone. "They don't know."

"And you believe them?" Tréville asked.

Clarick shrugged. "I believe they either don't know or they're not going to tell me. Either way, I need a different approach."

Aramis put his arms on the table and pillowed his head on them. Clarick looked askance at him. She was giving up her time and expertise; the least he could do was stay awake. His messy curls spilled across his pyjama cuffs and onto the table. He looked a wreck. She had never understood why people were so fond of him. 

"We can continue this in the morning," Sylvie said, giving Aramis a softer glance than he deserved. "We're all tired."

Clarick took a deep breath. 

"Fine," she said. She circled a couple of points in her notes, and put an exclamation mark next to a third. "Porthos and Elodie, meet me for breakfast. Tréville and Duplessis, you've been in the industry the longest. I need a list of everyone who might have a grievance against Bourbon Developments. Athos, arrange to get the bloody owls off the site before they spawn Duplessis-a-likes of their own."

Athos's expression -- aristocratic disdain failing to cover his dismay at having to take her orders -- almost made the evening worthwhile. 

Elodie stood, one hand pressed into her lower back. 

"How're you getting home?" Porthos asked.

"Walking," Elodie said. "I only live around the corner."

"I'll see you to your door," Porthos said. 

"Who's going to take me home?" Aramis asked, lifting his head and yawning. 

"I'll come back once Elodie's safe," Porthos said. "We can get a cab."

"And if I don't want to wait?" Aramis padded to Athos's side and tangled his fingers into Athos's hair. "Athos, can I come home with you?"

Athos, green eyes wide and panicky, looked between Porthos and Aramis. 

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Clarick said. Making Athos uncomfortable was her prerogative. "Don't let him use you to make Porthos jealous. We'll drop him off in the pridemobile."

Aramis pouted, but perked up when the Bonacieux woman described the minibus's paint job. 

"I'd have dressed up if I'd known I'd be travelling in such style," he said, running his hands through his hair.

"Dressing at all would have been good," the Bonacieux woman said. "Can I get a lift too?"

"The more the merrier," Sylvie said. "We can sing protest songs. I know all six verses of _L'Internationale_." She laughed at Athos's look of horror. "Are you going to join us?"

"I'll walk," Athos said. 

"D'Artagnan?" Sylvie asked. 

D'Artagnan beamed. He moved closer to the Bonacieux woman.

"You've got your bike," the Bonacieux woman said, nodding at a rusted racer propped behind the plan printer. The boy's face fell.

"Who's taking me home?" Duplessis said. "I will not be travelling in that... _circus wagon_ , I can assure you."

Tréville bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he ground out. He rose and strode out of the meeting room. "You're with me. Athos, set the alarm when you leave?"

Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan stared, open-mouthed, as Tréville shrugged on his leather jacket, picked up his motorcycle helmet, and retrieved a second helmet from the bottom drawer of a locked filing cabinet. He tossed the spare helmet to Duplessis. Duplessis caught it one-handed and followed Tréville, smirking. 

"You said he never let anyone ride pillion," d'Artagnan said, accusingly. 

The others shook their heads. 

"He doesn't," Porthos said. 

"I've been asking for years," Aramis said. "Very persuasively."

"I didn't even know he owned another helmet," Athos said. 

The door closed behind Duplessis. His abandoned trio of owlets chirruped a sad goodbye.

# # #

Athos caught Constance's eye. They both recognised the puppy-like footsteps crashing through Athos's flat. Athos capped his Rotring 0.35mm a second before d'Artagnan appeared. Constance pushed away the student thesis proposal she'd been reading, downed the last of her pink Lorina, and put down the bottle. She wasn't wearing d'Artagnan's jumper, for once.

"We've been longlisted!" d'Artagnan said, racing through the doorway. He skidded to a halt in the middle of their office and looked around, deciding against Aramis and Porthos's desk chairs. He bounded back to Athos's living room, dragged an armchair through -- its feet scratching shrill across the oak floor -- and sprawled in it, his long legs, in ripped black jeans, slung over one arm.

"Make yourself at home," Athos said, dry. 

D'Artagnan grinned. "Better get used to it," he said. "It's only a matter of time before you give me a job."

Constance rolled her eyes. "Never going to happen," she said.

"Well, no," d'Artagnan said. "Not unless you get more clients."

 _Ouch._ That hurt. Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon still only had the Court of Miracles project and Aramis's consultancy work for Anne Autriche. They desperately needed another client. 

Athos gave d'Artagnan a hard stare. 

"I can help!" d'Artagnan said. "We've been longlisted."

"You said." Athos raised an eyebrow. "Longlisted for what?" 

"The Château d'Annecy competition."

" _Bon_ ," Athos said. "But, we agreed with Jean-Armand that Annecy would be a Studio Tréville project. We did all the work on his time."

D'Artagnan pouted. "So let me work with you on another competition. You wouldn't have to pay me. Have you seen the brief for the Rue Lepic market? I like the look of that."

"Porthos and Constance are already working on our entry."

"Why should they have all the fun?"

"D'Artagnan," Constance said, firmly. "You need to concentrate on getting your HMONP with Studio Tréville. You've still got six months to go before you can sit your professional exam."

"And then can I come and work for you?"

Constance sighed. "We can't pay ourselves most months."

"In that case: can I take you to dinner?"

"No."

"No?"

Constance straightened the papers on her desk. "No. We've talked about this, d'Artagnan." She picked up her handbag and crossed to the coat stand. "Athos, ok if I start early in the morning?"

Athos nodded. Constance said goodbye to d'Artagnan -- polite but distant -- and slipped out. D'Artagnan mimed an aeroplane falling out of the sky, adding the sound effects as soon as the front door closed behind Constance.

"Crash and burn," he said. "Athos, how much time can she need?"

Athos did his best to rein in his panic. "Relationship advice is not my forte."

"It's been six months."

"Speak to Porthos. Or even Aramis..."

"Because their relationship is going so well..."

Athos balanced his Rotring on its end and stared at it. 

"Athos, are you listening to me? _Six months!_ "

Athos pressed his fingertips to his temples. He smelt of antibacterial hand wash; of avoiding mess and complication. He was in no way qualified to have this conversation. 

" _Athos._ "

He had to have this conversation...

"D'Artagnan, she's going through a _divorce_. It's not like splitting up with your college girlfriend. You don't get drunk that night and go home with someone else. Believe me, six months is nothing."

"How long am I supposed to wait?"

_Nearly six years? With no end in sight?_

"I don't have an answer for you."

"Give me a job. I wouldn't pressure her, I promise. But, if I could see her every day..." he trailed off, puppy-dog eyes on Athos.

"Do not pressure her. Ever." Athos flicked over his Rotring. It rolled across his desk; he caught it as it fell off the edge. "Also: do you think Constance is the type of boss who'd have a relationship with an employee?"

D'Artagnan sat up, eyes wide. Athos could almost see the cogs moving as the lad thought up another plan. He shook his head, weary. He didn't want to know.

# # #

Clarick strode across Duplessis's office, her Chelsea boots leaving wet footprints on the polished concrete. She wondered why the converted church always smelt of incense -- surely it couldn't be ingrained in the building's fabric? Perhaps Duplessis burnt it to ensure a devotional atmosphere; his staff certainly came close to worshipping him. 

Duplessis placed a piece of paper on his desk. He used his fingertips to push it towards her. It contained three names, printed in Helvetica.

"This is your list?" Clarick asked Duplessis. He was usually an Avant Garde man, typeface-wise. And, would he have included that third name...? "Of everyone with a grudge against Bourbon Developments?"

Duplessis sneered. " _That_ is Jean-Armand's list." He laid down a second sheet: three columns of names, single spaced; Avant Garde. "Jean-Armand lacks my--"

"Paranoia?" Clarick suggested, picking up Duplessis's page. 

"Perspicacity." 

Clarick raised her eyebrows. "Your list includes most of the Bourbon family."

"Nothing breeds resentments like family."

"And Habsburg Developments?" Based in Madrid. No contracts in Paris.

Duplessis spread his fingers wide. "Family," he said again. _Of course. Anne Autriche's brother._ Duplessis gave her an icy stare. "Tell Jean-Armand I consider our alliance ended."

"That's it? He saves you from arrest as an owlet-kidnapper, which would have brought you the worst publicity of your life, and you give him a single page of names?"

Duplessis surged to his feet, hands pressed flat to the desk. "I give him the _considerable_ benefit of my many years of political acumen. My unparalleled insight into the less salubrious side of human nature. My wisdom."

"And you believe that cancels your debt?"

"I know it does."

Clarick compared Duplessis and Tréville's lists on her way out. Two names appeared on both. She sighed.

_Family._

# # #

Athos pressed himself into the site office's window reveal, letting Porthos and Elodie handle the pre-meeting small talk while they waited for the client to arrive. The site itself, on the other side of the street, was still blockaded by anti-Bourbon banners and chanting protesters. Elodie's temporary office had lost the fresh-sawdust smell; instead, it had begun to smell abandoned. Even Elodie hadn't been spending much time here. Arras had transferred her to another project, temporarily -- maybe.

Athos cracked the window open. The street's sounds crept in: tyres splashing through slush; engines revving at the traffic lights on the corner; a siren wailing in the distance. There was no sign of Anne Autriche's car. Or Aramis's airport taxi. 

Porthos and the quantity surveyor were discussing the latest episode of _Chefs_. Elodie and Lucie de Foix, the project manager, talked football and the fortunes of PSG. Both Porthos and Elodie looked short of sleep. Porthos had spent the last two nights, while Aramis had been in Seville, on Elodie's couch, an arrangement that suited no-one. 

Athos's phone beeped. Aramis: _Nearly there. At the Jardin du Luxembourg_

Athos caught Porthos's eye. "Aramis'll be ten minutes."

Porthos checked his watch. "Where's Anne Autriche? It's not like her to be late."

A black Mercedes drew up outside, as if summoned by Porthos's words. One of Anne Autriche's assistants and the sister-in-law, the interior designer, climbed out. Athos waited for Anne to follow. She didn't.

"That's odd..."

Porthos tilted his head in enquiry.

"Entourage, but no Anne," Athos said. 

Anne's assistant crossed to the protest camp. She wore a dove grey coat, matching Russian fur hat, and heeled knee-high boots. She spoke to a protester holding a CLASS WAR placard. 

The design team squeezed into the window behind Athos to watch. 

The protester called over a woman carrying a loud hailer. They conferred, heads close. Loud hailer woman made a call. Other protesters put down their banners and joined the huddle.

The office door swung open with a creak. The team started, turned to see the interior designer in the doorway, and backed away from the window, guilty at having been caught spying. 

"Agnes," Lucie de Foix said, her voice warm, striding towards the woman. _That was her name. Agnes Bernard._ Lucie and Agnes air kissed. 

Athos held his impatience in check through the greetings, feeling Porthos doing the same, and took his seat. A sidelong glance out of the window told him the protesters were striking camp. He wanted to know what Anne Autriche's assistant had told them. He wanted to know why Anne wasn't there.

Mme Bernard fussed, taking off her coat and folding it neatly over the back of a spare chair before sitting down. 

Athos crossed his arms. He tapped his fingernails against the table, caught himself, and stopped. He forced himself to stay calm; refused to snap. 

"We'll keep the meeting short," Mme Bernard said. 

Porthos nodded. "Do we have a date for site start? I take it the talks with the protesters went well."

Mme Bernard looked away. She straightened her spine. "We have decided to mothball this project."

"Mothball?" Elodie said. 

"We?" Porthos said.

"Bourbon Developments," Mme Bernard said. "Anne Autriche sends her apologies. She has taken some time off --" she lowered her voice "-- work-related stress --" she shook her head, pitying "-- and I have taken over some of her duties."

"Forgive me, Mme Bernard," Athos said. "You are, I believe, an interior designer?"

She coloured and ducked her head. "I've been running my own business for... almost a year."

Athos did not raise an eyebrow. Porthos glared at him anyway. 

"Mothball?" Elodie asked, again.

Agnes fidgeted. "The project will be put on hold. Indefinitely. We don't feel it's the right place to... um... focus our resources at present."

 _We,_ again. Athos folded his hands carefully in his lap. He needed to stay silent. If Mme Bernard really was involved in decision-making at Bourbon in Anne's absence, they desperately needed her goodwill. Bourbon was, after all, their only client.

"Work-related stress?" Porthos asked. "Will Mme Autriche be ok?"

"It's been a challenging few weeks," Mme Bernard said. Light footsteps ran up the stairs and approached the door -- _Aramis_. Mme Bernard continued, oblivious. "There have been death threats."

Aramis slipped through the doorway, smiling broadly, carry-on bag slung over his shoulder, a black scarf loosely knotted around his neck. One of Athos's scarves. 

"Death threats?" Aramis asked. "Not to our feathered friends Belle and Sébastien, I hope."

Porthos got up, brow creased. "To Anne Autriche," he said. 

Aramis stilled. His expression intensified. Outsiders thought Porthos was the protective one; they saw him acting the mother hen; watched his broad shoulders spread to shield the people he cared about. 

Outsiders knew nothing.

Aramis, murder in his eyes, would do whatever it took to keep those he loved safe.

He turned on his heel, pulling out his phone, and left the office at a run. The call connected: "Ana, _querida_." His voice faded as he sprinted down the stairs. "Where are you? I'm..."

Porthos followed. Mme Bernard stared after him, her hand at her throat.

"There are a few things we'll need to clarify," Elodie said, shuffling papers and drawing Mme Bernard's attention. Covering for Porthos. "Do you want to discuss invoicing now or should I deal with the finance department directly?"

Mme Bernard stuttered. Elodie caught Athos's eye and feinted her head towards the open doorway. _Go after them._

Athos went.

He found Aramis pacing up and down the pavement's edge, between a street light and a bollard, talking softly into his phone. Porthos was perched on a second bollard, watching helplessly. 

Watching jealously.

Athos's heart contracted as he recognised Porthos's expression. He swallowed. He'd seen that look in the mirror, had seen it reflected in Anne Clarick's eyes. He'd never seen it on Porthos. He bit down on the urge to run and perched next to Porthos, nudging hip against hip and putting his arm around his friend's waist. Porthos tensed. 

"He's going to leave me," Porthos said. 

Athos's mind went blank. _Say something._

Aramis paced closer. "Thirty minutes," he said into the phone. "I'll be with you in thirty minutes. Courage, my love. I've got you."

 _Shit. He is leaving._ Athos's mind raced. _Don't say that. Say something else. Anything else._ His mind presented him with unhelpful options. _No, not anything. Something useful._

"He's not leaving you," Athos said, trying to ignore the roil in his gut. "He's looking after a lover who needs him. It's what he does."

Aramis ended the call. "I'm going to Spain with Anne," he announced. 

Porthos huffed. Athos tightened his arm around him.

_How do I make this right?_

"Tell us what's going on, Aramis," Athos said. 

Aramis took three deep breaths: refocusing. Athos felt Porthos ease too, a little. 

"Anne wants to go to her brother in Madrid," Aramis said. "She'll feel safer with family. I'm going to take her."

The tension bled out of Porthos. "I'll come with," he said, standing. Athos shifted to balance on his own, as best he could. Porthos reached for Aramis. "You'll need someone to bring you home."

Aramis shook his head and stepped back. Porthos froze. 

"I'm going straight on to Seville," Aramis said. Porthos dropped his arms.

"Tréville's sending you back already?" Athos asked.

"Not Tréville." Aramis half-turned his body away. He raked a hand through his hair. "I'm going on a Lenten retreat. With the Archbishop. I've been thinking about it for weeks, but I didn't know how to tell you." He looked back at Porthos, anguished. "I need this! I need time to think, to work out who I am. What I want."

"You know who you are," Porthos said. 

Aramis paced away. "Not any more," he said. "Anne's pregnant. It might be... _is_ my child."

Porthos gaped. Athos held his breath.

"Are you..." Porthos began to ask. Faltered.

"You're gonna..." he said. Stopped.

_Beamed._

Strode to Aramis and gathered him into his arms. 

"You're gonna be a father! That's _amazing._ "

Aramis relaxed into the hug. He closed his eyes and rested his head on Porthos's shoulder. Athos started breathing again. 

"You can't go," Porthos said, releasing Aramis. "I need you here. We need to get used to this. We need to -- _fuck_ , we need to read books about babies and go shopping for nappies and-- _we are going to be part of this baby's life?_ "

Aramis sighed. 

"I don't know," he said. "There's so much I don't know."

"Forty days incarcerated in a monastery isn't going to help," Porthos said. "We need you. Athos, tell him."

Athos gulped. "We'd miss you," he said. "And, actually, we need Anne Autriche too. She's our only paying client. Couldn't you keep her safe here?"

Porthos chuckled. "Athos has a point, although that was the most pragmatic appeal to the emotions I've ever heard."

Athos glowered at him. "I don't see you doing better."

Porthos sucked in a breath and turned to Aramis. "I need you here, sweetheart. I..." he licked his lips "...I think I'm falling for Elodie, and we've never spoken about what would happen if _I_ found someone else, and her baby's Charon's which makes it, what, my foster-nephew? -- and that's all sorts of messed up..." Porthos's eyes brimmed.

Aramis stared. He took a half-step away, then another.

Athos's heart shrivelled. 

Porthos continued, thumbing tears away, "...and I need to keep Elodie safe from Charon, and I have _no idea_ what she wants because, of course, I haven't spoken to her about any of this, that would be too straightforward..."

Aramis kept backing away, his face stricken.

"...and, don't you see, I can't do it without you?" Porthos finished. 

"Don't make me choose," Aramis said. 

"It's not a choice," Porthos said. "It's never been a choice. It's always been all of us: you, me, Athos -- as much as he's able to give -- and everyone you choose to love. I'm not asking you to stop caring for Anne, particularly not now. I'm asking you to care for her and come home to me, as you always do. That's all."

"I..." Aramis said. He looked over Porthos's shoulder and raised his hand. "I can't. This, with Anne, with the baby... I need time on my own to think about it. You know why." 

"Are you leaving me?"

" _No!_ " A taxi swerved to a stop next to Aramis, responding to his outstretched arm. Aramis opened its door. "Not leaving. Just... going away. For now. I'm sorry." He climbed in and slammed the door shut. The taxi pulled away. The traffic lights turned green. The taxi rounded the corner. Aramis didn't look back.

Porthos, tears flowing down his cheeks, turned and ran. 

Athos, perched alone on his bollard, buried his face in his hands. His feet ached; damp seeped in through the seams of his office shoes. Pain pulsed through his broken arm. A car, driving too close to the kerb, flung up a spray of slush. It crashed over him. 

He bowed his head. 

_I should have found the right thing to say._

Icy water dripped off his hair, slipped under his collar and trickled down his spine. He didn't do anything to stop it.

_I deserve this._

He closed his eyes--

\--and pictured Constance, of all people, looking exasperated. Not exasperated at Aramis and Porthos, and their argument. Exasperated at him. Why? _What have I--_

_Fuckety fuck._

Athos facepalmed.

_I'm making this all about me and my manpain. Again._

He pulled his hair back, wringing the water from it, and took out his phone. He was tempted to call Constance and let her take over. She'd know what to do. He stared at her name. 

Then he selected the name above Constance's, added to his contacts only the previous Friday. He took a deep breath, summoned what little courage he possessed, and pressed call.


	5. Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: mention of teen pregnancy and the accidental death of a baby.

Clarick paused in the street outside Studio Tréville. She checked her reflection in the brass nameplate, took off her beret and shook out her hair. A cyclist, bumping over the cobbles with a basket full of shopping, gave her a broad smile. Clarick winked back and breathed in the smell of croissants from the patisserie two doors down -- not as good as Ninon's pastries, but still comforting; still a reminder of her new life, her new loves. She wrapped the thought of them around her like armour.

Her phone rang. 

_Athos?_

She answered -- "We're on speaking terms now?" -- and took satisfaction in Athos's intake of breath and silence. "I'm outside your office. Can it wait two minutes?"

" _You're outside my..._ " -- and she found the panic in his voice... uncomfortable. She refused to think about the implications of her response. Athos collected himself. "You're at Studio Tréville," he said, as if that was a revelation. "I'm not there."

And that feeling... the awareness of his absence... was definitely relief. Definitely.

"Splendid," Clarick said, pushing the door open. All eyes turned to look at her. She strode in, head held high. Tréville, sketching something out for d'Artagnan, pointed her towards the meeting room.

"I'll be ten minutes," he said.

D'Artagnan flushed as she passed.

"I need your help," Athos said. Clarick stayed silent. She shut herself into the meeting room. Athos floundered. "That is... I mean... perhaps you could..." 

"Breathe, Athos." 

She sensed the narrowing of his eyes and the tightening of his lips. When he spoke it was with icy self-control. 

"There have been threats against Anne Autriche's life," he said. "Who is behind the protests against Bourbon Developments?"

"I don't yet know."

"Not good enough."

"Two names keep coming up. Is the death threat credible?" Clarick asked. 

"I... don't know."

"Mme Autriche probably has the experience to judge. She's a woman in public life; it won't be her first death threat. How's she reacting?"

"She's leaving Paris."

"Interesting. One of the names is Marie de' Medici."

"Anne's _mother-in-law_?"

"There's no love lost."

"Still." He stopped to consider. Clarick pictured the crease between his brows. "Setting aside the question of whether she'd stoop to assassination, Mme de' Medici must be a major shareholder in Bourbon Developments. Would she risk damaging her financial interests?"

Clarick shrugged, knowing Athos would hear it in her voice. "Remember the infighting when her husband retired?"

"Wasn't that about securing the marketing department for Louis?"

"Armand Duplessis thinks otherwise. He believes Mme de' Medici had ambitions to be CEO."

"Ambitions she may not have relinquished." Athos sighed. "I find myself glad Aramis is escorting Anne to Madrid."

"Ah. That might not be her best course of action." She felt Athos's concern. "The second name is Habsburg Developments, and Mme Autriche's brother Philip."

The line went dead.

Thirty seconds later d'Artagnan's desk phone rang.

Clarick's phone went again a couple of minutes after that, as d'Artagnan grabbed his bike, gabbled an explanation to Tréville and left _tout de suite_.

# # #

Athos found Porthos, predictably enough, in the Wren. In a dark corner at the back. Drinking Ricard. 

Straight.

Athos shrugged off his dripping coat and dumped it on the floor, on top of Porthos's. The scent of aniseed hit him as he sat down.

"Hmm. The sweet smell of underage drinking."

"You too?" Porthos asked.

Athos tilted his head: _of course not._

"I purloined my parents' good Armagnac," Athos said, nodding to the bar tender, a chubby twenty-something black woman in horn-rimmed glasses. "But the kids in Pinon drank a terrifying firewater pastis that smelt just like Ricard. The priest said it'd make you go blind."

"Yeah, priests say a lot of things make you go blind." Porthos downed his drink. "Pretty much everything Aramis likes to do, for a start. What the actual fuck does he think a monastery is going to make of him?"

Athos shrugged. "Aramis is capable of doing astonishingly stupid things."

The bar tender brought Ricards for both Athos and Porthos, glasses clinking on her tray, and lit the candle on their table. Athos considered the untouched water jug at Porthos's elbow. He decided against.

" _Santé._ "

" _Santé._ "

They drank.

"Relationship advice is not my forte..." Athos said, for the second time within a week. _As if anyone needs me to tell them._

"It's alright, Athos. I don't wanna talk. Just get drunk with me."

"I can do that."

"And maybe hold my hand?"

Athos reached across the table for Porthos's hand: Athos's right, Porthos's left. Porthos clung tightly, head down. The flickering candlelight reflected in the tear tracks on his face.

"I have something to tell you," Athos said. "Will you listen and promise not to do anything straight away?"

Porthos tensed. He nodded, looking at Athos. 

"Madrid might not be the safest place for Anne," Athos said. "Her brother is one possible source of the death threats."

Porthos half-rose. " _Aramis!_ "

Athos tightened his grip until Porthos collapsed back into his chair. 

"I need to go to him," Porthos said. "Persuade him to stay in Paris."

"It's not Aramis who needs persuading. It's Anne. She's the one in danger. Do you think she'll listen to you? When you tell her _her brother_ maybe wants her dead? When you tell her while exuding jealousy? And, incidentally, 100-proof aniseed fumes."

Porthos grumbled, but didn't attempt to move. 

"Also, Paris might not be safe either. The other death-threat candidate is Marie de' Medici."

Porthos stared, jaw dropping. He necked his Ricard and caught the bar tender's eye to order another round. 

"What can we do?" 

"We need someone Anne trusts to break the news to her and convince her not to go to Madrid. I couldn't get hold of Constance, so I sent d'Artagnan to Paris-Belleville to find her."

Porthos checked his watch. "She'll be teaching right now."

"I can't imagine d'Artagnan will let that stop him seeing her." 

"So we wait?"

"And drink." Athos finished his first Ricard as the bar tender arrived with replacements. "And, tonight..."

"Tonight?"

"...work out who's behind the death threats."

"Why do I get the feeling you've got a plan?"

Athos swigged his drink, relishing the burn in his throat.

"A really bad plan. It involves breaking and entering. In the company of my ex-wife." 

# # #

"It's interesting," Clarick said as Tréville shut the meeting room door behind him. She'd chosen to sit nearest the window. "Athos appears to be under the impression that you've commissioned me solely to investigate Bourbon Developments' problems."

Tréville leaned back on the door, folding his arms.

"Why would I have done that?" he asked. "Bourbon isn't my client."

"Precisely. Yet you're not concerned about Athos and his friends noticing and asking difficult questions."

Tréville snorted. 

"Nor are you worried about the ethical implications of spying on one of your employees."

Tréville pushed himself upright and marched to her side. 

"What do you have for me?"

Clarick handed him her report. He settled on the window sill and paged through. 

"How many people is he seeing?" 

"Three. Two women, one man. The women were easy to identify: a politician, and a newsreader."

"Aramis's usual type." Tréville turned to the final page and swallowed a curse. 

"I haven't been able to trace the man." She'd obtained CCTV footage from Aramis's hotel, inside and out, through sweet-talk and bribery. The man was unshaven, with curly hair falling to his jaw, dressed in combats and a tatty raincoat. She'd included a shot of him walking along the shopping street outside the hotel. "He isn't looking in the windows. He's staring up at whatever's above." She paused, knowing Tréville would understand. Architecture students started paying attention to buildings, not shop fronts, sometime during their first semester; it never wore off. "He's an architect."

"Architect-engineer," Tréville corrected. "Like Aramis."

"You know him?"

"Marsac," Tréville said.

# # #

Athos's phone beeped. 

"D'Artagnan," he said, glancing at the text -- _Where are you?_ \-- and passing it over to Porthos. It beeped again. Porthos huffed at the message and passed it back.

_Treville says are you drinking?_

Athos thumbed out a reply -- _Porthos says Treville's not his boss any more_ \-- and checked with Porthos before hitting send. Porthos grinned.

_Treville says he's *your* boss. Apparently we're coming to find you. The Wren?_

Athos and Porthos necked their drinks and signalled for a new round. The bar tender, talking to the one other customer, took her time. She brought the drinks over as d'Artagnan, rain drenched, pushed through the doors. He halted, letting his eyes adjust to the gloomy bar, and shook himself off, dousing Tréville, two steps behind.

"Sorry, sir," d'Artagnan said.

Tréville sidestepped, brushing himself down and muttering. D'Artagnan loped towards Athos. 

"Job done. I had an awesome visit to Paris-Belleville." He smirked, then looked piqued when Athos didn't respond. "Come on, ask me what I did."

"You gave my message to Constance without harassing her in any way," Athos said.

"Yeah, that too. Constance spoke to Mme Autriche, and she and Aramis aren't going to Madrid." He held up his hand before Porthos could speak. "They're not staying here either. They're both going to Seville."

Tréville intercepted the bar tender. 

"How much have they drunk?" he asked. She printed their tab and handed it to him. He glowered and paid. "Bring us some coffee. Black, strong as you can make it." He turned to Athos and Porthos. "I'm cutting you off."

"Better be a good reason," Porthos said. 

"How much do you know about Marsac?" Tréville asked, pulling up a chair. 

Porthos furrowed his brow. "Aramis's ex? Left Paris after you made him redundant. Aramis hasn't heard from him since."

"Not quite true. They've been seeing each other in Seville."

Porthos reeled. Athos, who hadn't let go of Porthos's hand, squeezed.

"Also," Tréville added. "I didn't make Marsac redundant. He resigned."

D'Artagnan looked from Tréville to Porthos, hoping for an explanation. "Is this the Savoy joint venture no-one will tell me about?"

Tréville covered his eyes with his hand. The coffee arrived. D'Artagnan looked at Athos. 

Athos sighed. "Yes, it's Savoy. What do you know?"

"I saw the accounts. I know Studio Tréville got sued back to the Stone Age."

"Actually, the indemnity insurance covered most of the legal liabilities," Tréville said. "It was the fine that crippled us."

"Fine for what?" d'Artagnan said.

"Health and safety violations," Athos said. He gulped the last of his Ricard. "A baby died."

D'Artagnan froze, eyes wide and mouth open.

Porthos took over: "This is before my and Athos's time, right? And Aramis doesn't talk about it. So I don't know much. It was the first project Aramis ran, a children's hospital. It was nearly finished. A homeless woman got onto site, looking for somewhere to sleep. Her baby crawled off and fell down a lift shaft."

"But... but..." d'Artagnan stuttered.

"Yes," Athos said. "There should have been a barrier. Hence the court case and the fines."

"It was an accident, but..." d'Artagnan said, "...was it Aramis's fault?"

Porthos flung himself to his feet. He loomed over d'Artagnan, grabbing the lad by his shirt. "This is Aramis. You understand?"

Athos peeled Porthos's fingers from d'Artagnan's shirtfront and pressed Porthos back into his chair. D'Artagnan straightened his collar and brushed himself down.

"Yeah," he said.

"There was nothing Aramis could have done," Tréville said. He sighed and stared into his coffee cup. Athos and Porthos exchanged raised eyebrows over his bowed head and stayed quiet. Tréville spoke about Savoy even less than Aramis did. Tréville continued: "We collaborated with Rouge Duplessis on the design, then took over once it started on site. Aramis was project architect with Marsac assisting. Aramis was ill that day." Tréville rubbed his eyes. "Migraine. Marsac went to the site meeting alone. He claimed he noticed the lift shaft was open and told the site agent to block it, but he didn't include it in the minutes or follow up with a written instruction. The site agent said it wasn't discussed."

Tréville looked up at them. "The woman... she was seventeen, barely more than a child herself; she'd been living on the streets for a year. Her parents had kicked her out when she got pregnant. Her daughter was called Hélène. 

"She was seven months old."

They all fell silent. They drained their coffees. Tréville held his head in his hands. The bar tender, perhaps finding the atmosphere oppressive, put on Shy'M. The other customer swore at her. She turned the music up.

"What about site security?" d'Artagnan asked.

Tréville looked sick: his skin grey, his eyes weary. "The guard had wandered off and left the site unlocked."

"But..." d'Artagnan said.

"No more questions."

"But, sir..."

" _Enough,_ " Tréville said. 

"One more question," Athos said. "You made everyone redundant except Aramis. Why keep him?"

Tréville's jaw clenched. For a long moment Athos was certain he would walk out. Then: "Aramis was my best architect. And... he was blaming himself. I couldn't let him go."

Porthos shook his head. "Seeing Marsac will have brought all this up again. No wonder Aramis isn't coping with Anne and the baby."

Tréville and d'Artagnan stared. 

"The baby?" d'Artagnan asked. 

"It appears Aramis has got our client pregnant," Athos drawled.

"Jesus," d'Artagnan said. 

Tréville nodded agreement. He looked at Porthos. "We're going to Seville, son," he said. "Sober up. Get some sleep. We leave first thing tomorrow."

"You've booked flights?" Porthos asked.

"We're going by motorbike," Tréville said. "You and Aramis both need time to clear your minds."

"Road trip!" d'Artagnan said. 

# # #

Clarick strolled through the Galerie Vivienne -- carefully chosen neutral territory -- and checked her hair in the window of the Librairie Ancienne & Moderne. Her footsteps on the mosaic tiles echoed percussively off the arcade's glazed roof. She was wearing an Isabel Marant Etoile dress; another form of armour. 

People watched her pass. 

Flea was already seated at a table outside A Priori thé. She stood to greet Clarick: four air kisses, both of them smiling cordially. Flea wore an ankle-length draped and layered black skirt. Stella McCartney. Worth more than Clarick's entire outfit. Clarick gritted her teeth.

They ordered tea and Queen of Sheba gâteau from a silent waiter. Clarick noted the empty tables to either side of them. She sat back and let Flea open the conversation.

"Wasn't sure we'd ever meet," Flea said. 

"Sarazin was a great admirer of yours," Clarick said. 

"And I of him. He didn't forget his roots."

"As I did?"

"As lots of people did," Flea said. Pain flashed in her eyes. She quashed it. "What do you want?"

The tea and cake arrived. 

"On the house, mesdames," the waiter murmured, retreating swiftly.

Clarick poured. Fragrant steam rose. 

"Information about Charon," she said. 

"His death threats to Mme Autriche," Flea said, making it a statement, not a question.

Clarick masked her surprise. "Can you protect Mme Autrich?"

"No. I have agents in her world..."

"I know Nesrine," Clarick said, with her best cat-who-got-the-cream smile. The security guard at Bourbon Developments' HQ had always been most co-operative... 

"Yeah, you do," Flea said, grinning back. Her smile, for the first time, reached her eyes. Clarick sensed Flea relax, decide to trust. For the moment, at least. "But, Nesrine -- and a few others -- can't keep Mme Autriche safe. Charon's dangerous, and I don't know who hired him or why. Do you?"

"No. I have some leads."

"Here's the deal. You find out who's pulling Charon's strings. In return, I'll protect Elodie Labouret while Porthos is away."

Clarick inclined her head in agreement and rose. 

Flea wrapped the untouched cake in a napkin -- both her own slice and Clarick's -- and tucked it into her handbag before pushing her chair back and standing to shake Clarick's hand.

# # #

D'Artagnan: _Can I tell you about my visit to Paris-B now?_

Athos -- standing in front of his wardrobe, wondering what one wore to do crime -- texted a reply: _Do I want to know?_

_I picked up a job application form. Library assistant_

_?????!_

_Be my referee?_

_You already have a job_

_This is only 3 evenings a week_

_Please Athos_

_If I get it Constance will be my colleague_

_*sigh*_

_Pretty please_

_...alright_

_Yessss!!!_

_Are we still clear about not pressuring her?_

_Yes sir_

# # #

The lift doors closed behind Athos. He didn't look at Clarick. Or at the mirror on the back wall. His cheeks burned; he didn't want to know how much he was blushing, or how visible it was under the lift's bright lights. He could feel Clarick's smug grin. His heart pounded. 

How did Clarick know the night guard? Were they lovers? 

Ascending nine storeys took an eternity.

Athos's mind spent the time replaying the kiss he'd just witnessed. He'd seen Clarick with her girlfriends, had seen casual gestures of affection between them, but never...

His trousers felt too tight, bringing back an unwelcome sense-memory of teenage embarrassment. He swallowed and attempted to think about something else. Anything else. He stared at the carpet. Bourbon Developments' logo had been woven into it, royal blue on a charcoal background. He focused on the blue, breathed deeply, and calmed himself.

He'd anticipated their... _intelligence-gathering mission?_... would be stressful. He hadn't expected this particular source of stress. 

He cleared his throat. 

"How, exactly, are we expecting this to work?" he asked. "We break in to Marie de' Medici's office, and then what?"

The lift doors opened with a screech, onto a dark, deserted corridor. Athos, suddenly very aware they were trespassing, felt his heart rate increase. He stepped into the corridor. The lights flickered and came on, two at a time, as the movement sensors registered his presence. 

"It depends what we find," Clarick said. "And how security-conscious Mme de' Medici is."

"She strikes me as the careful type."

"You'd be surprised at how many otherwise careful people use 'password' as their password. Or '12345678'. Or their children's names..." She paused. They both thought of Louis. Clarick shook her head. "Maybe not. Her birthdate, perhaps."

"Do you know her birthdate?"

Clarick gave him a look. 

"Of course you do."

They stopped at the corner office. Clarick -- definitely the careful type -- pulled on gloves before reaching for the door handle. Athos thought back and realised he'd been the one to press the lift buttons; Clarick hadn't touched anything since their arrival. 

Except the security guard...

...and that mental image wouldn't help him concentrate.

The door wasn't locked. Clarick switched on the lights, illuminating a mid-century modern desk in front of one wall of floor-to-ceiling glazing and a black Corb chaise longue in front of the other. No other furniture: no filing cabinets to rifle or bookshelves to pillage. Paired portraits hung on the wall: Marie de' Medici and her husband Henri. The room smelt of freshly-applied teak oil; the cleaners had finished work an hour or so earlier, about midnight.

Clarick sat at the desk, cracked her knuckles, and nudged the mouse.

"Impressively secure password," she said, typing. "Thirty-two characters, no obvious pattern, numbers and symbols as well as letters."

_Shit._

Was this going to be a total waste of time? 

An _illegal_ total waste of time. 

"Anything in the desk drawers?" Athos asked, beginning to panic. He peered behind the portrait of Henri Bourbon, then that of Mme de' Medici, with the vague, movies-inspired, idea he might find a safe.

"I'm in," Clarick said.

" _What?_ How did you do that?"

"Codebreaking genius," Clarick said, mousing fast.

Athos eased the painting of Mme de' Medici off its hook, not quite believing what he'd uncovered. "Does your genius extend to safe cracking?"

"Ah. I may have exaggerated my genius. Mme de' Medici wrote her password on a post-it note and stuck it to the screen."

Athos huffed a laugh. Hysteria threatened. He forced it down, re-hung the painting, and circled the desk to looked over Clarick's shoulder. Her jasmine perfume calmed him with its familiarity. They'd both chosen the same outfit: Athos wore a black turtleneck over black skinny jeans; Clarick had picked a bottle green turtleneck to go with her black skinnies. Her jumper looked velvet-soft. It took all Athos's willpower to not stroke it.

Clarick opened Outlook; they scanned the inbox together. No emails to Charon. 

"That one," Athos said, pointing. Subject line: _Extraordinary General Meeting_

Clarick opened it, then double-clicked the attachment: _Agenda.pdf_

"' _Item 1_ ,'" she read. "' _Proposal to replace Anne Autriche as Chief Executive Officer_.'"

"Why doesn't Anne know about this?"

"She's not a shareholder."

"She's not?"

"Louis Bourbon owns shares, quite a lot of shares, but Mme Autriche doesn't hold any in her own name. The notification would have gone to Louis. She won't be entitled to attend the EGM either."

"Who is?"

"Most of the Bourbon family. Agnes Bernard -- she inherited when Philippe died. Big institutional shareholders -- banks and the like. A collection of individuals, although it's unlikely they'll attend, unless there's an activist shareholder. And, interestingly, Philip Habsburg. He acquired a significant stake soon after Mme Autriche took over."

"Banks," Athos said. "What about de Larroque?"

Clarick nodded, distracted. "Look, the email's BCC-ed to a personal address -- QueenBeeMarie@gmail.com." She opened a browser window. "She's got a Google account. I bet she saved the password."

"We need votes against the motion," Athos said. 

Clarick typed, ignoring him. " _Yes!_ There it is." She made a note. "No two-step verification, excellent. I'll be able to access this from anywhere. I'll check through the emails later, let you know if anything links Mme de' Medici to Charon."

Athos nodded, barely listening. "I know Ninon doesn't get on with her parents, but could she talk to them?"

" _What?_ "

"Maybe persuade them to vote for Anne?"

Clarick spun the chair to face Athos, her eyes cold. "You have no right to ask that," she said. "You don't know what she's been through."

He stepped back, hands up. "I... no... I..." He took a breath. "You're right. I should not have asked. I apologise."

Clarick opened her mouth. A screech cut through her reply. _The lift doors!_ Athos flung himself across the room and switched off the light. Clarick shut down the computer. They stilled, listening. 

Someone was heading their way.

Athos searched the room, dimly illuminated by the light from the Eiffel Tower. Only one hiding place. 

Clarick, reaching the same conclusion, slid off the chair and under the desk. Athos joined her. They curled together in the confined space, legs tangled. Athos strained to hear the advancing footsteps over his racing heartbeat. He felt Clarick's breath on his cheek. 

The office door opened. The light flicked on. 

Athos and Clarick held their breath.

The steps halted at the portrait of Mme de' Medici. A cold sweat rushed over Athos. Had he left it crooked? 

He grabbed Clarick's hand.

Something clicked. Athos flinched. It clicked again: _tick-tick-tick_ pause _tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick_.

The safe?

Athos breathed out. 

The safe swung open with a creak. Paper rustled. The safe clanged shut. The footsteps moved away. The office door opened. The light went off. The steps retreated down the corridor. 

Neither Athos nor Clarick moved. 

Athos took a shaky breath. 

The lift doors screeched. 

Athos reached for Clarick, his hands trembling. She slid into his arms with an unsteady laugh. Athos felt giddy with relief. They touched foreheads. Clarick's lips parted. 

Athos leant in.

Clarick cupped his nape.

They kissed, gentle--

\--then frantic, Clarick's fingers tangling in Athos's hair; Athos's hands gripping Clarick's shoulders and pulling her into him. Athos lost himself in the kiss, aware of nothing but Clarick. Her taste, her smell, her warmth, the joy of touching her and of being touched. 

The _rightness_ of being with Clarick. 

Athos pressed kisses along Clarick's jaw and under her ear. She flattened herself against him, awkward in the cramped space. He reached between them to unbutton her jeans. She pushed under his jumper, untucked his t-shirt, and ran gloved hands up his back. He arched into the caress, skin tingling, and--

Bright light.

They froze, blinking. Listening.

A familiar voice: "We should be allies, you and I." 

_Marie de' Medici._

Walking towards her desk. 

And speaking to...?

"You seem to be doing perfectly well on your own."

_Armand Duplessis..._

_Oh, fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to Thimblerig, who guessed Aramis was seeing Marsac in Seville way back at Chapter 2!


	6. Sisters-in-law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: mention of the accidental death of a baby; and a gunshot.

"You realise," Armand Duplessis said, "the Board will never accept you, or Louis, as CEO."

Marie de' Medici's footsteps stopped. Athos, pressed uncomfortably against Clarick, didn't dare move. He averted his eyes from her face. Her hands on his spine, so welcome a few moments earlier, now imprisoned him in regret. He'd let himself forget everything to touch her. He would not do so again.

"I have another candidate," Mme de' Medici said.

There was a pause.

"The Bernard woman?" Armand said. "Bravo. Does she know how you plan to manipulate her?"

"She is grateful for the opportunities I have given her."

"Grateful? Too naïve to understand your scheming."

"She needs an advisor."

"Me? Why would I agree?"

"You owe no loyalty to Anne Autriche. You can either accept my offer, and be rewarded with the Court of Miracles contract, or reject it and never work for Bourbon Developments again." Mme de' Medici paused. There was a rustling of paper. "There is also the matter of--"

The desk phone rang. Athos jumped. His head hit the underside of the desk, the dull thud hidden -- he hoped -- by the shrill of the phone. Mme de' Medici answered the call.

" _I said keep everyone--_ Louis's here?" She sighed. "Thank you, Nesrine. Tell him I'm in the building."

She hung up.

"It would be better," she said to Armand, "if my son did not see you. He would have questions."

"I daresay he would."

"I'll take him to his office. Leave once the coast is clear. And consider your options carefully, Armand."

Athos and Clarick waited, straining to hear. Footsteps moved away. Something squeaked -- the leather of the chaise longue? The lift doors screeched. 

"What are you doing here, Mother?" Louis Bourbon's petulant voice carried along the corridor. Mme de' Medici soothed him. A door closed, cutting off the murmur of her voice, leaving only the hum of traffic from nine storeys below, the soft in-and-out of Clarick's breathing, and the beat of Athos's own heart.

He couldn't hear Armand. It worried him. He pictured Armand prowling soundlessly, preparing to pounce. A nocturnal stealth predator.

They waited. Athos's embarrassment grew. His hands were still wedged between them, on Clarick's jeans button, his fingers curled around her waistband against her skin. 

"You can come out now," Armand said.

Athos and Clarick stared at each other. Athos pulled away, almost relieved, the need for silence over. He straightened his clothes, signalled to Clarick to stay down -- Armand need not catch both of them -- and pushed himself out from under the desk and onto his feet. 

"Both of you," Armand said. 

Athos closed his eyes in a long blink. Clarick stood and stepped away, putting a couple of metres' distance between them. Armand, seated straight-backed on the chaise longue, rose and steepled his fingers. 

"Well, well," he said. "What unexpected partners in crime. Did you overhear anything edifying?"

"You know what we heard," Clarick snapped. "What answer do you plan to give Mme de' Medici?"

"That will depend," Armand said, stalking to the door. "Tell Tréville Marie knows about Savoy. He and I need to talk."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_He packed a bag: hand luggage only, liquids in a clear ziploc baggie. He considered the note he'd been given -- also bagged, to avoid incriminating fingerprints. It was to be left on the target. "In a pocket or her handbag," had been the instruction. "With the other item."_

_He couldn't risk carrying it. Airport security always stopped him, no matter how carefully he conformed to their petty rules and regulations._

_He searched through a drawer until he found an envelope, and addressed it to himself, care of the hotel in Seville._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Athos wandered around his flat, straightening things. The remote control on the coffee table. The cushions on the sofa. The row of unwashed coffee cups next to the kitchen sink. Rain beat against the windows and cascaded off the roof.

He kept his distance from the wine rack. If he'd learnt anything in the years since leaving Clarick, he'd learnt drinking alone at 3am -- especially on a dismal Thursday night in February -- was a terrible idea.

He leant on the kitchen counter, head in hands. _Had_ he learnt anything? The entire evening had been one terrible idea after another. His lips tingled; taunting him with the memory of kissing Clarick. 

He closed his eyes and breathed in, remembering her scent. 

Remembering her parting shot.

They'd followed Armand, walking fast and near-silent. Hadn't spoken. Clarick had hailed a cab. Hadn't touched him.

"You want Sylvie," she'd said, folding herself into the taxi.

Athos's mind, dumbfounded, conjured up a distracting image of Sylvie swinging a long, lycra-clad leg over her bike. 

Clarick laughed -- _had she known what I was thinking?_ \-- and explained: "For shareholder votes. You want Sylvie, not Ninon." 

Athos still hadn't spoken. _Of course she'd known. She knows me better than anyone. Even now._

"Do you have any idea how many charity Boards Sylvie sits on?" Clarick had said. "She knows most of the great and the good of Paris."

Athos had stared long after the taxi was out of sight. 

He shook his head, forcing his thoughts back to the present: the slate counter cold under his elbows; the rain drumming; his fingers threaded through his hair. He yanked. The ache in his scalp anchored him.

He had to think. And not about Clarick. Or Sylvie.

 _What had Duplessis meant? Mme de' Medici knows_ what _about Savoy?_

Athos straightened, frowning. Why wouldn't Tréville answer d'Artagnan's questions? How had he known Aramis was seeing Marsac? Why had it worried him? _What is he hiding?_

_I need to talk to someone._

Athos checked the time. Nearly three-thirty. Porthos needed sleep. Aramis... 

He thumbed out a message: _You awake? Alone?_

Aramis's reply snapped back: _Regrettably, yes to both_

_Anne?_

_Separate rooms. Don't ask_

_Marsac?_

No response. Athos typed an apology, deleted it, re-typed it, dithered, deleted it again, and threw the phone down. It beeped. He snatched for it. It beeped a second time.

 _How do you know?_

_Does Porthos know?_

_Treville told us both._ Athos chewed his lip. _He talked about Savoy_

The phone rang.

"Bet he didn't tell you everything," Aramis said, voice hard. 

"That's the impression I got," Athos said. 

"Did he mention the journalist?"

Athos shook his head. "No."

"She called the ambulance. Why was she there, right then?"

"And...?"

"Site security. The guard was told to be elsewhere. To leave the gate unlocked."

"Told? By whom? _Why?_ "

Aramis paused. "Marsac believes Tréville gave the order."

"Impossible."

"Who else could it have been?"

"Armand Duplessis is involved."

"He didn't have the authority to give orders."

Athos realised his hands were shaking. He tightened his grip on the phone. "You can't really believe this of Tréville?"

Aramis sighed. "I don't want to believe it. But I have to know. Marsac has found out something new. I'm meeting him tomorrow. Something about an actor."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_He nodded in satisfaction and pulled off his ear defenders. The final report reverberated around the range. Two rounds to the chest, one to the head. The holes in the target were neatly placed: straight through the heart, and right between the eyes._

_He'd lost everything that had mattered to him. His love. His career. His self-respect._

_He promised himself the next shots he fired would take her life._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Athos printed two copies of Clarick's email -- a full list of Bourbon Developments' shareholders -- and handed one to Lucie de Foix. He'd invited the project manager over to discuss strategy. She sat on Aramis's drafting chair, leaning back comfortably onto his drawing board.

"If the project is handed to Rouge Duplessis, Armand will sack you and bring in his own favourite project manager," Athos said. 

"Martin Labarge," Lucie said, disdainful.

"You're friendly with Agnes Bernard. Is she Mme de' Medici's co-conspirator or her dupe?"

Lucie twirled a lock of blond hair around her finger as she thought. "She's not close to her mother-in-law. I doubt she's in on the plan."

"Will she vote with Mme de' Medici?" Athos checked the list. _Agnes Bernard: nine percent shareholding._

"To make herself CEO? Who wouldn't?"

Athos stopped himself sighing. Lucie de Foix -- expert, confident, ambitious -- would never understand others' self-doubt. 

"Could you talk to her?" he asked. "Find out what she--"

"Athos!" d'Artagnan shouted from the living room. He wandered into the office, wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped low around his hips, trailing the scent of Athos's shampoo. Lucie stared. Athos couldn't blame her. D'Artagnan, focused on Athos, remained oblivious. "Where have you put my clothes?"

"Tumble dryer," Athos said. He caught d'Artagnan's eyes and dipped his head towards Lucie. D'Artagnan turned.

"Uhh..." he said, clutching his towel. 

Lucie smiled and gave him a frank up-and-down appraisal. 

"This isn't for your benefit," d'Artagnan said.

Lucie glanced at Athos, her smile widening. "I can leave you two to your entertainment."

"Ent...?" d'Artagnan said. "No, that's not..."

"He got drenched cycling here," Athos said. 

"I'm d'Artagnan. I came to deliver drawings from Studio Tréville."

Lucie rose. "Lucie de Foix. What are you doing tonight?"

D'Artagnan gaped. 

"Give me your number," Lucie said, handing him her phone. He hesitated, then grinned. He took his hand off his towel and used both thumbs to type. 

"I finish work about six," he said.

The front door opened.

"Afternoon!" Constance yelled. "Anne called. I found out why she Aramis have separate..."

She walked into the office and stopped. Her sopping wet hair dripped onto her shoulders. Lucie plucked her phone from d'Artagnan's lifeless fingers. 

"Tonight, then," she said. "I'll text with a time and place."

She waved a goodbye to Athos and slipped out, leaving Constance and d'Artagnan frozen. 

"Clothes," Athos said. "Now."

D'Artagnan, avoiding Constance's gaze, scurried to obey. Constance swept to her desk.

"It's none of my business," she said. 

"We both know that's not true," Athos said. 

Constance shook her head. "Don't."

Athos didn't. He picked up a blue highlighter pen and tapped it on his desk. "Tell me about Anne and Aramis and their separate rooms."

"Keeping up appearances in front of Louis Bourbon's sister. Christine Bourbon is in Seville, playing Hermione in _The Winter's Tale_. Anne's got tickets to the closing night on Saturday."

"I didn't know Christine Bourbon was back on the stage. It's been years." Athos ran his finger down Clarick's list of shareholders. _Yes: Christine Bourbon, almost eleven percent ownership._

"Perhaps she got bored of being a Hollywood superstar?"

Athos highlighted the actor's name and passed the list to Constance. "And perhaps Anne can persuade her to vote against her mother?"

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_He went straight from the airport to buy a knife. Its heft in his inside pocket settled him, let him find his balance. He ambled through the streets of Seville, taking the long way to his hotel, appreciating the warmer temperatures and the anonymity of a strange city._

_He checked in, accepted the letter the sullen receptionist handed him, and left his bag on the narrow bed in his room._

_Back on the streets the unfamiliar cadences of Spanish broke over him as he made his way to the Lope de Vega theatre, the stage door, and a lighting technician on Marie de' Medici's payroll._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Athos swung by Café Égalité on his way to Studio Tréville. Sylvie, on her own behind the counter, flashed him one of her luminous smiles. Her shoulders were bare, in defiance of the weather; the scarlet and blue bands on her peasant top were the brightest colours he'd seen for days.

"Flat white, triple shot?" she asked.

"To go. Any progress?"

"Three things."

Athos leant next to the coffee machine, close enough to breath in the scents of coffee and warm milk and Sylvie. He admired the efficiency of her movements as she measured, ground, and tamped. 

"One: I can get you nearly six percent of the vote."

Athos smiled up at her, remembering to curve both sides of his mouth. "You're good."

"You have no idea." She grinned and poured semi-skimmed into a jug , raising her voice as she started frothing. "Two: Clarick says Charon is working for Mme de' Medici."

"Not Philip Habsburg? Excellent." _Twenty-five percent ownership; almost certain to vote for his sister once she tells him about Mme de' Medici's scheming; won't be able to attend the EGM._ "Can you ask Clarick to look into proxy voting?"

"Already done. She'll email you the form. You need an original signature."

"Looks like someone's going to be visiting Madrid."

"Which brings me to three: someone's already visiting Seville." Sylvie mixed espresso and milk in a reusable cup, fitted its lid, and handed it to Athos. "Flea knows a baggage handler at Orly. Charon caught a flight this morning."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_He waited in the box office's returns line, first in the queue, admiring the building's baroque ornamentation. Christine Bourbon was a big enough star for the run to have sold out before opening night. Still, there were always returns, if you were willing to wait. He was willing._

_He'd waited years for justice; what was another day or two?_

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Athos texted Porthos from Studio Tréville: _Call me next time you take a pitstop_

He'd briefed Samara on a planning application, delegated more Place des Reflets details to d'Artagnan, and caught up with Aramis before Porthos called. 

"Where are you?" Athos asked.

"Just past Bordeaux. We're gonna spend the night in Biarritz."

"Tréville's taking you _gambling_? Has he forgotten what happened in Monte-Carlo?"

Porthos rumbled his deep chuckle. "I'll try not to get arrested this time."

"Try _very hard_ not to get arrested. I need a lift. I'm flying to Spain tonight. Could you swing by Madrid tomorrow?"

# # #

Athos heard the roar of Porthos and Tréville's motorbikes as he exited Habsburg Developments' Cuatro Torres office, Philip Habsburg's signature on the proxy voting form in his bag. Porthos parked, ripped off his helmet, and ran to meet Athos. He pulled Athos into a deep kiss.

Athos, always awkward about public displays of affection, stiffened. Porthos pulled away. He smelt of leather and petrol and road, and underneath it all an unfamiliar bodywash. Athos gathered his courage, wrapped his arms around Porthos, and kissed him properly. Porthos relaxed and hummed into the kiss. The touch of his tongue made Athos light-headed.

"Gentleman, please," Tréville said. 

Athos opened his eyes and turned to find his boss glaring at them, arms folded and foot tapping. Porthos released Athos.

"I missed him," Porthos said, laughing at Tréville's expression.

"You've been apart a day and a half."

"It seems longer. It's the distance."

Tréville pulled a face. "We've got a five-hour journey ahead of us. Let's go."

"One moment," Athos said. "We need to talk about Savoy before we see Aramis, and Marsac. Do you know anything about a journalist? Or an instruction to site security to leave the gate unlocked?"

Tréville turned away from them. They watched him get back on his bike and speed off.

"He didn't admit anything," Porthos said.

"He didn't need to. I'll call Aramis."

Porthos re-packed his panniers while he waited, retrieving his spare helmet and stowing Athos's gear. 

"Does he know we're on our way?" he asked, when Athos hung up.

"He knows I am," Athos said. "I need to get Christine Bourbon's signature on a form. You're a surprise."

Porthos scowled, getting onto the bike and putting on his helmet. "Do you think it'll be the good sort of surprise?"

"Aramis needs you -- needs both of us -- as much as we need him. It'll be the best sort of surprise."

Porthos drove fast. Athos gripped his waist, remembering riding back from Orly Airport behind Aramis. Porthos's bike, unlike Aramis's scooter, thrummed with power. Athos gave himself over to Porthos's strength and control, relaxing as he ceded responsibility to his friend.

They reached Seville around sunset; the sky was streaked with pink as they hit the city's outskirts. Tréville -- having waited at Mérida -- rode in front of them. He'd refused to discuss Marsac's allegations. 

The Lope de Vega Theatre turned out to be a baroque wedding cake of a building, domed and decorated. A well-dressed crowd spilled over the pavements and into the road as they approached. Posters of Christine Bourbon in a clinging gold dress lined the street. They parked next to one, removed their helmets, and spent a few minutes stretching, regaining their land-legs and adjusting to the lack of engine noise. Athos rubbed his right arm. It had started throbbing a couple of hours earlier.

"Do we have tickets?" Porthos asked. 

Athos shook his head. He checked his watch. Curtain-up wasn't for thirty minutes.

"Let's catch them before they take their seats."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_Charon circled the crowded lobby, dressed in the theatre's front of house uniform and wearing gloves. He spotted Anne Autriche on the arm of Porthos's pretty boyfriend. They turned heads: her in a sky blue gown, him in a tuxedo with a bow tie to match her dress._

_He only needed them to be distracted for a moment._

_His knife, weighing down his inside pocket, bumped against his chest as he moved._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Athos pushed his way through the crowd, Porthos and Tréville forming a wedge behind him, heading towards the sound of Anne Autriche's laughter. A uniformed man reached Anne first, leaned close to talk to her, and led her and Aramis away. 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_Marsac slipped backstage, pulling out his pistol and fitting his hand around its grip. He paced towards the dressing rooms, his heart thumping._

_He heard voices around the turn in the corridor and halted, pressing his back to the wall. Aramis: his fluid Spanish unmistakable._

_A door opened and closed._

_Marsac, hands shaking, continued._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Athos, trapped behind a family group, watched Anne and Aramis disappear through a door marked "AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY". Porthos nudged Athos, and nodded towards the back of a second uniformed man, moving fast in the opposite direction.

"That's Charon," Porthos said.

"Crap."

"I'll go after Charon," Tréville said. "Get to Aramis."

They shoved their way through the crowd, pushing people aside and apologising -- Porthos in passable Spanish, Athos in haughty French. The door, when they reached it, was unlocked. It led into a corridor, its exposed pipework and unplastered walls contrasting with the opulence of the foyer. 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_Charon realised he'd missed his chance. He needed the crowd to mask his actions. He breathed deeply, summoning patience, and prepared himself to wait until the interval. A teeming bar would be perfect._

_A theatre-goer, waving her ticket, addressed him in Spanish he didn't understand. He held up his index finger, in what he hoped was a convincing gesture of being in the middle of something important, and ducked backstage._

_He found himself near the actors' dressing rooms, facing a sweating white man holding an SR22. The man, lank curly hair falling into his eyes, levelled the gun at Charon._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

"Did we take a wrong turning?" Athos asked, coming to a halt at a T-junction.

"Hard to tell when we don't know where we're heading," Porthos said, breathing heavily. "Let's apply some architectural know-how to the problem."

Athos raised an eyebrow. 

"Think about it," Porthos said. "They must have been invited to Christine Bourbon's dressing room, right?"

"Right."

"And we know where front of house is," Porthos said, pointing, "and where the auditorium and stage are. This place was purpose-built as a theatre and it's pretty traditional."

Athos nodded. "So that means the dressing rooms must be..."

They both pointed left and spoke together: "...that way."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_Marsac swallowed. The short black man in his sights hadn't flinched when Marsac had taken aim. He'd continued to move forward, his steps slow, his calm intimidating. This was nothing like shooting targets in the range._

_"Stop," Marsac said. "I'll shoot."_

_The door behind the black man crashed open._

"Tréville?" _Marsac shouted._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Athos and Porthos heard the shout, around a distant bend in the corridor. They ran. Porthos took the lead. Athos sprinted to keep up. He bounced off the wall as he rounded the corner. 

Three men turned to face them: Tréville, a man Athos recognised from photographs as Charon, and a nervous-looking man holding--

\--was that a _gun?_

A door opened. Athos caught a glimpse of its gold star before a dark-haired woman stepped out, bare-footed. _Christine Bourbon. In person._

_Fuck._

The edgy man swung his gun towards her. 

Porthos yelled, and hurled himself into a tackle.

Charon leaped.

The gun went off. 

The noise filled the space, deafening.

Porthos hit the floor, Christine Bourbon underneath him. 

Charon crashed into the gunman, screaming. The gun fell to the floor and skittered down the corridor towards Athos. 

Aramis shot out of the dressing room and tripped over Porthos. 

Athos crouched next to the gun, not wanting to pick it up in case it accidentally went off. _How do I make it safe?_

Tréville crashed into Aramis and Porthos.

Charon struggled with the gunman.

Anne Autriche poked her head out of the dressing room, more cautious than Aramis. She assessed the situation, ducked back into the room, and emerged carrying a bottle of champagne. She stepped neatly over Porthos, positioned herself behind the gunman, and swung the champagne. It hit the back of his head with a crack. He slumped into Charon. Anne dropped the bottle. It crashed to the floor, exploding in a mess of glass shards and bubbly froth. 

Athos realised his mouth was open. He closed it and remembered to breath. 

No-one moved. 

Christine Bourbon was the first to speak. 

"Is anyone hurt?" she asked, in French, shoving Porthos off her and climbing to her feet. 

Tréville, Aramis and Porthos disentangled, brushing themselves down and wincing when they hit bruises.

"Nothing serious," Porthos said. 

"I'm not hurt," Anne said, sagging against the wall. "He is." She pointed at the gunman in Charon's arms.

Charon lowered the man, gently, to the floor and checked his pulse. "Still alive," he said. "And I'm fine."

Everyone turned to Athos. He stood. "Gun," he said. "That is, I'm fine, and does anyone know how to make a gun not kill people?"

Charon took a step towards Athos. Porthos grabbed him. 

"Anyone who isn't Charon," Athos said. 

"I do," said Christine Bourbon -- _Christine Bourbon_ \-- as she walked towards Athos, picking her way through the broken glass. "You can't live in the US without picking up a bit of gun lore." She did something that ended with Athos cupping nine bullets in one hand and a, presumably, harmless piece of equipment in the other.

The lights in the dressing room flickered. 

"That's my call," Christine Bourbon said. She looked around and settled on Anne. "I'll head the stage manager off. Sort this out in some way that doesn't cause bad publicity for me or the theatre and you've got my vote."

She nipped into her dressing room for shoes, nodded to Anne, and strode towards the stage, leaving everyone blinking in her wake. 

# # #

They spent some time tidying up and calming down. Aramis and Anne sat together, shoulder to shoulder, speaking softly. Tréville used his belt to tie the unconscious man -- Marsac, of course -- to a chair. Porthos did the same to the protesting -- but not struggling -- Charon. Athos swept up the broken glass. 

Eventually, they all felt ready to deal with whatever needed to happen next. 

Anne took charge. 

"I know why _he's_ tied up," she said, nodding at Marsac. "But what about _him_?" She looked at Charon.

Porthos handed over a plastic bag. "Found this in his jacket," he said. "Switchblade knife, and another death threat."

Aramis threw himself at Charon, fists flying. Porthos pulled him off. "The knife was sealed in the bag when I found it," he said. "Charon wasn't here to kill Anne."

"That's right," Charon said. "I was hired to scare her, that's all. I was to slip that into her pocket, or her bag, and leave."

"Hired by whom?" Anne asked.

"Marie de' Medici."

"But, instead, you helped. Possibly saved my life."

"Yeah," Charon said. "Couldn't have that nutter shoot you. Not with with me being a black man on the scene of the crime, carrying a weapon and a death threat. I'd've been facing life in jail before I could say 'miscarriage of justice.'"

"And the nutter?" Anne asked. "Who hired him?"

"I believe I can explain," Tréville said.

"You have a lot of explaining to do," Aramis said. 

Tréville nodded. "I do. I'm sorry, Aramis." He looked at each of them in turn. "I'm responsible for the death of the baby at the Savoy Children's Hospital. I gave the order to leave the site unlocked."

" _Why?_ " Aramis said. 

"Armand Duplessis asked me to." He held up a hand, silencing Aramis's outburst. "He asked on behalf of the client. The Hospital had a famous patron who'd agreed to attend the opening ceremony. She'd asked for it to be low-key, no advance publicity, but the Hospital knew press coverage meant more donations. They arranged for a journalist to snoop around that night, and left details of the opening ceremony where she'd find them. I arranged for the site to be left unlocked."

"And the homeless woman got in instead," Porthos said. 

"And baby Hélène died," Tréville said. "There hasn't been a day since when I haven't regretted my actions."

"The famous patron," Athos said. "Christine Bourbon?"

"Yes," Tréville said. 

# # #

Athos wished he'd seen the play. Christine Bourbon met them outside the theatre, next to the motorbikes, afterwards. Without stage make-up, in jeans, boots, and a bomber jacket, she still looked like a star.

"Do I want to know?" she asked, noting the absence of Charon and Marsac. 

"Voluntary commitment for the gunman," Anne said. "And I'm keeping the other as leverage against Marie, I'm afraid."

"Good luck with that," Christine Bourbon said. "Where's this form you need me to sign?"

Athos produced it.

"What happens next?" she asked. 

"I rush back to Paris," Athos said, "where your other sister-in-law has agreed to be your proxy, and to vote for Anne at the EGM on Monday."

"Agnes? She's voting against mother? When did she grow a backbone?"

"I think she's always had one," Anne said. "Even if she doesn't show it often."

"You need to get back to Paris too," Christine Bourbon said. "You've a company to run."

Anne nodded. 

Christine Bourbon ran her hand along the seat of Porthos's motorbike. "Nice bike. Can I borrow it?"

Porthos looked startled. 

"I'll give Anne a lift home, cast my vote in person, and have a chat with my mother and Louis. You can stay here and sort things out with your boyfriends."

Porthos looked more startled. Aramis beamed. Athos took an involuntary step backwards. 

"An excellent idea," Anne said. 

Christine Bourbon held out her hand to Porthos. "Keys."

He obeyed. 

"Not your average filmstar, then?" he said.

Christine Bourbon grinned. She and Anne unlocked and emptied the bike's panniers, leaving Porthos and Athos's gear on the pavement. They packed their handbags and each put on a helmet. Christine climbed into the driving seat and turned the key in the ignition. Athos gave Anne his leather jacket and Philip Habsburg's proxy vote. She hitched up her evening gown, climbed on behind Christine, and waved as they pulled away.

"I'll keep them safe," Tréville said, starting up his bike and following. 

Athos, Aramis and Porthos watched them go. Athos shivered. February in Seville was still too cold without a jacket. 

"Come here, both of you," Aramis said, gathering them into a hug. Athos closed his eyes and leant into it. All three of them smelt of hotel shower gel; wrong, but wrong together.

"You're wearing my bow tie," Porthos said to Aramis, tweaking it.

"I wanted a piece of you here with me. I didn't expect to get the whole of you."

"Surprise?" Porthos said. 

"The best sort," Aramis said. He kissed Porthos, slowly and carefully, holding Athos close. Then he twisted to face Athos, and kissed him: equally slowly, equally carefully, holding Porthos close. 

Athos sighed into the kiss, his heart full. 

"Not to sound like a dirty old man..." Porthos said, "...but what underwear are you two wearing?"

Athos answered first. "Constance's sky blue boxers."

Aramis laughed, gleeful. "Me too."

Porthos laughed, unrestrained. The sound of pure joy. "Me three," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you lovely readers, especially those who have commented or left kudos. 
> 
> The next thing I'm planning isn't a new story, it's a break from posting fic. Bye for now!!

**Author's Note:**

> #### Previously on An Aesthetic of Miracle...
> 
> ###### tl;dr:
> 
> Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon Architects, after much shenanigans, beat Armand Duplessis to win an architectural competition run by Bourbon Developments.
> 
> ###### Relationships at the end of the first story: 
> 
> Aramis/Porthos (long-term, poly), Athos/Porthos (occasional, because of Athos's unwillingness to commit), Aramis/Anne Autriche (badly kept secret), Armand Duplessis/Adèle (over), Aramis/Adèle (public now she's split up with Duplessis), Clarick de Winter/Ninon/Sylvie (rocky), d'Artagnan/Clarick (one-off mistake), Athos/Clarick (past, still smouldering), Aramis & the Archbishop of Seville (friendship based on shared interest in theology).
> 
> ###### A bit more detail:
> 
> Content warning: mention of past (canon) attempted rape.
> 
> Aramis, Athos and Porthos, working for Studio Tréville and hoping to start their own practice, entered the architectural competition as Herblay Fère Vallon Architects. They were disqualified after Aramis started seeing Anne Autriche, CEO of Bourbon Developments.
> 
> Buro Bonacieux (partners: Jacques-Michel and Constance Bonacieux) self-destructed after Jacques-Michel changed Constance's design without telling her. 
> 
> Armand Jean Duplessis, of Rouge Duplessis Architects, attacked both Herblay Fère Vallon and Studio Tréville -- partly because of long-term rivalry with Tréville, partly because Aramis was sleeping with Duplessis's girlfriend, Professor Adèle Bessett, and partly to win the competition. Duplessis hired Clarick de Winter as his agent; she came close to destroying both d'Artagnan and Adèle Bessett's careers, and ruining Studio Tréville. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Clarick's carefully-constructed new life at Café Égalité (once called Café Fraternité) was threatened. She'd re-opened the café with her girlfriends Sylvie and Ninon, not telling them the truth about her traumatic past. Athos's reappearance opened up old wounds (and, for Athos, caused new ones -- he stepped in front of a taxi and broke his arm). 
> 
> Athos and Clarick (then using the name Anne) had run Café Fraternité together five years earlier. Athos had walked in one evening to find Clarick in his brother Thomas's arms; Athos had fled in a jealous rage. Thomas had attempted to rape Clarick and had burnt down the café. Clarick, caught in the fire, was taken to hospital. Thomas was arrested. Athos, when he found out, went to Thomas not Clarick. Thomas later committed suicide in police custody. 
> 
> Athos's relationship with Aramis and Porthos was put under strain when he repressed instead of sharing. He eventually managed to confide in them, a little.
> 
> Clarick's relationship with Sylvie and Ninon was also put under strain when they found out about her work for Duplessis.
> 
> Adèle, Constance and Anne Autriche teamed up to free Adèle from Duplessis and Constance from Buro Bonacieux. Adèle, Head of School at Paris-Belleville, gave Constance and Porthos part-time teaching jobs.
> 
> Constance won the competition on her own, and joined Aramis, Athos and Porthos to set up the new firm Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon Architects.


End file.
